“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.
“ C’est très-curieux et c’est très-sérieux ,” he whispered across the table to Ivan Petrovitch, rather loudly. Probably the prince heard him.
“So that I have not offended any of you? You will not believe how happy I am to be able to think so. It is as it should be. As if I could offend anyone here! I should offend you again by even suggesting such a thing.”
“Calm yourself, my dear fellow. You