“Do you really forgive me?” he said at last. “And⁠—and Lizabetha Prokofievna too?” The laugh increased, tears came into the prince’s eyes, he could not believe in all this kindness⁠—he was enchanted.

“The vase certainly was a very beautiful one. I remember it here for fifteen years⁠—yes, quite that!” remarked Ivan Petrovitch.

“Oh, what a dreadful calamity! A wretched vase smashed, and a man half dead with remorse about it,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna, loudly. “What made you so dreadfully startled, Lef Nicolaievitch?” she added, a little timidly. “Come, my dear boy! cheer up. You really alarm me, taking the accident so to heart.”

“Do you forgive me all⁠— all , besides the vase, I mean?” said the prince, rising from his seat once more, but the old gentleman caught his hand and drew him down again⁠—he seemed unwilling to let him go.