Prince Andréy had gone out into the hall, and, turning his shoulders to the footman who was helping him on with his cloak, listened indifferently to his wife’s chatter with Prince Ippolit who had also come into the hall. Prince Ippolit stood close to the pretty, pregnant princess, and stared fixedly at her through his eyeglass.

“Go in, Annette, or you will catch cold,” said the little princess, taking leave of Anna Pávlovna. “It is settled,” she added in a low voice.

Anna Pávlovna had already managed to speak to Liza about the match she contemplated between Anatole and the little princess’ sister-in-law.

“I rely on you, my dear,” said Anna Pávlovna, also in a low tone. “Write to her and let me know how her father looks at the matter. Au revoir!”⁠—and she left the hall.

Prince Ippolit approached the little princess and, bending his face close to her, began to whisper something.