It was seven in the evening, and the prince was just preparing to go out for a walk in the park, when suddenly Mrs. Epanchin appeared on the terrace.
“In the first place, don’t dare to suppose,” she began, “that I am going to apologize. Nonsense! You were entirely to blame.”
The prince remained silent.
“Were you to blame, or not?”
“No, certainly not, no more than yourself, though at first I thought I was.”
“Oh, very well, let’s sit down, at all events, for I don’t intend to stand up all day. And remember, if you say one word about ‘mischievous urchins,’ I shall go away and break with you altogether. Now then, did you, or did you not, send a letter to Aglaya, a couple of months or so ago, about Eastertide?”
“Yes!”
“What for? What was your object? Show me the letter.” Mrs. Epanchin’s eyes flashed; she was almost trembling with impatience.
“I have not got the letter,” said the prince, timidly, extremely surprised at the turn the conversation had taken. “If anyone has it, if it still exists, Aglaya Ivanovna must have it.”
“No finessing, please. What did you write about?”
“I am not finessing, and I am not in the least afraid of telling you; but I don’t see the slightest reason why I should not have written.”