Pelageia Petrovna had just risen, and was preparing her morning tea when Iván Golubenko, gloomy and confused, entered the room.
“Just in time for tea, Iván Ivanovich!” amiably exclaimed the old lady, rising to meet her guest. “You have surely called to see Vladímir!”
“No, I—in passing by—” Golubenko stammered, abashed.
“You will have to excuse him, he is still asleep. He walked up and down his room the whole of last night, and I told the servant not to wake him, as it is a—holy day. But probably you came on urgent business?”
“No, I only stepped in for a moment in passing—”
“If you wish to see him, I will give the order to wake him up.”
“No, no, do not trouble yourself!”
But Pelageia Petrovna, believing that he had called to see her son on some business or other, left the room, murmuring to herself.
Golubenko walked excitedly to and fro, wringing his hands, not knowing how to tell her the terrible news. The decisive moment was quickly approaching, but he lost control of himself, was frightened, and cursed fate that had so mixed him up with the whole business.