“You say that, my good sir, because you have never been married yourself.”  Gedeonovsky listened with a forced smile.

“If I may be so inquisitive,” he asked, after a short pause, “for whom is that pretty scarf intended?”

Marfa Timofyevna gave him a sharp look.

“It’s intended,” she replied, “for a man who does not talk scandal, nor play the hypocrite, nor tell lies, if there’s such a man to be found in the world.  I know Fedya well; he was only to blame in being too good to his wife.  To be sure, he married for love, and no good ever comes of those love-matches,” added the old lady, with a sidelong glance at Marya Dmitrievna, as she got up from her place.  “And now, my good sir, you may attack any one you like, even me if you choose; I’m going.  I will not hinder you.”  And Marfa Timofyevna walked away.

“That’s always how she is,” said Marya Dmitrievna, following her aunt with her eyes.

“We must remember your aunt’s age...there’s no help for it,” replied Gedeonovsky.  “She spoke of a man not playing the hypocrite.  But who is not hypocritical nowadays?  It’s the age we live in.  One of my friends, a most worthy man, and, I assure you, a man of no mean position, used to say, that nowadays the very hens can’t pick up a grain of corn without hypocrisy—­they always approach it from one side.  But when I look at you, dear lady—­your character is so truly angelic; let me kiss your little snow-white hand!”

Marya Dmitrievna with a faint smile held out her plump hand to him with the little finger held apart from the rest.  He pressed his lips to it, and she drew her chair nearer to him, and bending a little towards him, asked in an undertone—­

“So you saw him?  Was he really—­all right—­quite well and cheerful?”

“Yes, he was well and cheerful,” replied Gedeonovsky in a whisper.

“You haven’t heard where his wife is now?”

“She was lately in Paris; now, they say, she has gone away to Italy.”

“It is terrible, indeed—­Fedya’s position; I wonder how he can bear it.  Every one, of course, has trouble; but he, one may say, has been made the talk of all Europe.”

Gedeonovsky sighed.

“Yes, indeed, yes, indeed.  They do say, you know that she associates with artists and musicians, and as the saying is, with strange creatures of all kinds.  She has lost all sense of shame completely.”

“I am deeply, deeply grieved.” said Marya Dmitrievna.  “On account of our relationship.  You know, Sergei Petrovitch, he’s my cousin many times removed.”

“Of course, of course.  Don’t I know everything that concerns your family?  I should hope so, indeed.”

“Will he come to see us—­what do you think?”

“One would suppose so; though, they say, he is intending to go home to his country place.”

Mary Dmitrievna lifted her eyes to heaven.

“Ah, Sergei Petrovitch, Sergei Petrovitch, when I think how careful we women ought to be in our conduct!”