“If you ask me,” said Prince Andréy, without looking up (he was censuring his father for the first time in his life), “I did not wish to speak about it, but as you ask me I will give you my frank opinion. If there is any misunderstanding and discord between you and Másha, I can’t blame her for it at all. I know how she loves and respects you. Since you ask me,” continued Prince Andréy, becoming irritable⁠—as he was always liable to do of late⁠—“I can only say that if there are any misunderstandings they are caused by that worthless woman, who is not fit to be my sister’s companion.”

The old man at first stared fixedly at his son, and an unnatural smile disclosed the fresh gap between his teeth to which Prince Andréy could not get accustomed.

“What companion, my dear boy? Eh? You’ve already been talking it over! Eh?”

“Father, I did not want to judge,” said Prince Andréy, in a hard and bitter tone, “but you challenged me, and I have said, and always shall say, that Márya is not to blame, but those to blame⁠—the one to blame⁠—is that Frenchwoman.”