Podzharov was embarrassed, and he, too, opened his eyes wide.

“How’s this?” Klimov went on, throwing up his hands. “I know the girl, and⁠ ⁠… and⁠ ⁠… I am surprised.⁠ ⁠…”

“I am very sorry this has come up,” muttered the actor, getting up and rubbing something out of his left eye with his little finger. “Though, of course⁠ ⁠… of course, you as her uncle⁠ ⁠…”

The other guests, who had hitherto been listening to the actor with pleasure and rewarding him with smiles, were embarrassed and dropped their eyes.

“Please, do be so good⁠ ⁠… take your words back⁠ ⁠…” said Klimov in extreme embarrassment. “I beg you to do so!”

“If⁠ ⁠… er-er-er⁠ ⁠… it offends you, certainly,” answered the actor, with an undefined movement of his hand.

“And confess you have told a falsehood.”

“I, no⁠ ⁠… er-er-er.⁠ ⁠… It was not a lie, but I greatly regret having spoken too freely.⁠ ⁠… And, in fact⁠ ⁠… I don’t understand your tone!”

Klimov walked up and down the room in silence, as though in uncertainty and hesitation. His fleshy face grew more and more crimson, and the veins in his neck swelled up. After walking up and down for about two minutes he went up to the actor and said in a tearful voice:

“No, do be so good as to confess that you told a lie about Varenka! Have the goodness to do so!”

“It’s queer,” said the actor, with a strained smile, shrugging his shoulders and swinging his leg. “This is positively insulting!”

“So you will not confess it?”

“I do-on’t understand!”