The shrill tones of Hippolyte interrupted him. “What right have you … by what right do you demand us to submit this matter, about Burdovsky … to the judgment of your friends? We know only too well what the judgment of your friends will be! …”
This beginning gave promise of a stormy discussion. The prince was much discouraged, but at last he managed to make himself heard amid the vociferations of his excited visitors.
“If you,” he said, addressing Burdovsky—“if you prefer not to speak here, I offer again to go into another room with you … and as to your waiting to see me, I repeat that I only this instant heard …”
“Well, you have no right, you have no right, no right at all! … Your friends indeed!” … gabbled Burdovsky, defiantly examining the faces round him, and becoming more and more excited. “You have no right! …” As he ended thus abruptly, he leant forward, staring at the prince with his shortsighted, bloodshot eyes. The latter was so astonished, that he did not reply, but looked steadily at him in return.
“Lef Nicolaievitch!” interposed Madame Epanchin, suddenly, “read this at once, this very moment! It is about this business.”
She held out a weekly comic paper, pointing to an article on one of its pages. Just as the visitors were coming in, Lebedeff, wishing to ingratiate himself with the great lady, had pulled this paper from his pocket, and presented it to her, indicating a few columns marked in pencil. Lizabetha Prokofievna had had time to read some of it, and was greatly upset.
“Would it not be better to peruse it alone … later,” asked the prince, nervously.
“No, no, read it—read it at once directly, and aloud, aloud!” cried she, calling Colia to her and giving him the journal.—“Read it aloud, so that everyone may hear it!”