“When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an accoucheur .⁠ ⁠… Let him be here.⁠ ⁠…”

The old prince stopped writing and, as if not understanding, fixed his stern eyes on his son.

“I know that no one can help if nature does not do her work,” said Prince Andréy, evidently confused. “I know that out of a million cases only one goes wrong, but it is her fancy and mine. They have been telling her things. She has had a dream and is frightened.”

“Hm⁠ ⁠… Hm⁠ ⁠…” muttered the old prince to himself, finishing what he was writing. “I’ll do it.”

He signed with a flourish and suddenly turning to his son began to laugh.

“It’s a bad business, eh?”

“What is bad, Father?”