“Oh yes, of course, on purpose! I quite understand.”
“It is very painful to me to answer these questions, Lizabetha Prokofievna.”
“I dare say it is; but that’s no affair of mine. Now then, assure me truly as before Heaven, are you lying to me or not?”
“No, I am not lying.”
“Are you telling the truth when you say you are not in love?”
“I believe it is the absolute truth.”
“ ‘I believe,’ indeed! Did that mischievous urchin give it to her?”
“I asked Nicolai Ardalionovitch …”
“The urchin! the urchin!” interrupted Lizabetha Prokofievna in an angry voice. “I do not want to know if it were Nicolai Ardalionovitch! The urchin!”
“Nicolai Ardalionovitch …”
“The urchin, I tell you!”
“No, it was not the urchin: it was Nicolai Ardalionovitch,” said the prince very firmly, but without raising his voice.
“Well, all right! All right, my dear! I shall put that down to your account.”
She was silent a moment to get breath, and to recover her composure.
“Well!—and what’s the meaning of the ‘poor knight,’ eh?”
“I don’t know in the least; I wasn’t present when the joke was made. It is a joke, I suppose, and that’s all.”