“She is proud, she is struggling with herself; but kind, charming, generous,” she exclaimed, in a half-whisper. “Oh, how I love her, especially sometimes, and how glad I am again of everything! Dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, you didn’t know, but I must tell you, that we all, all—both her aunts, I and all of us, Lise, even—have been hoping and praying for nothing for the last month but that she may give up your favorite Dmitri, who takes no notice of her and does not care for her, and may marry Ivan Fyodorovitch—such an excellent and cultivated young man, who loves her more than anything in the world. We are in a regular plot to bring it about, and I am even staying on here perhaps on that account.”
“But she has been crying—she has been wounded again,” cried Alyosha.
“Never trust a woman’s tears, Alexey Fyodorovitch. I am never for the women in such cases. I am always on the side of the men.”
“Mamma, you are spoiling him,” Lise’s little voice cried from behind the door.
“No, it was all my fault. I am horribly to blame,” Alyosha repeated unconsoled, hiding his face in his hands in an agony of remorse for his indiscretion.
“Quite the contrary; you behaved like an angel, like an angel. I am ready to say so a thousand times over.”
“Mamma, how has he behaved like an angel?” Lise’s voice was heard again.