“I am packing. Forgive me, Nikolay Sergeitch, but I cannot remain in your house. I feel deeply insulted by this search!”

“I understand.… Only you are wrong to go.… Why should you? They’ve searched you things, but you … what does it matter to you? You will be none the worse for it.”

Mashenka was silent and went on packing. Nikolay Sergeitch pinched his moustache, as though wondering what he should say next, and went on in an ingratiating voice:

“I understand, of course, but you must make allowances. You know my wife is nervous, headstrong; you mustn’t judge her too harshly.”

Mashenka did not speak.

“If you are so offended,” Nikolay Sergeitch went on, “Well, if you like, I’m ready to apologise. I ask your pardon.”

Mashenka made no answer, but only bent lower over her box. This exhausted, irresolute man was of absolutely no significance in the household. He stood in the pitiful position of a dependent and hangeron, even with the servants, and his apology meant nothing either.

“H’m!…You say nothing! That’s not enough for you. In that case, I will apologise for my wife. In my wife’s name.…She behaved tactlessly, I admit it is a gentleman.…”

Nikolay Sergeitch walked about the room, heaved a sigh and went on:

“Then you want me to have it rankling here, under my heart.… You want my conscience to torment me.…”

“I know it’s not your fault, Nikolay Sergeitch,” said Mashenka, looking him full in the face with her big tear-stained eyes. “Why should you worry yourself?”

“Of course, no.… But still, don’t you … go away. I entreat you.”

Mashenka shook her head. Nikolay Sergeitch stopped at the window and drummed on the pane with his finger-tips.

“Such misunderstandings are simply torture to me,” he said. “Why do you want me to go down on my knees to you, or what? Your pride is woundered, and here you’ve been crying and packing up to go; but I have pride, too, and you do not spare it! Or do you want me to tell you what I would not tell us Confession? Do you? Listen; you want me to tell you what I won’t tell the priest on my death-bed?”

Mashenka made no answer.

“I took my wife’s brooch,” Nikolay Sergeitch said quickly. “Is that enough now? Are you satisfied? Yes, I … took it.… But, of course, I count on your discretion.…For God’s sake, not a word, nor half a hint to any one!”

Mashenka, amazed and frightened, went on packing; she snatched her things, crumpled them up, and thrust them anyhow into the box and the basket. Now after this candid avowal on the part of Nikolay Sergeitch, she could not remain another minute, and could not understand how she could have gone on living in the house before.

“And it’s nothing to wonder at,” Nikolay Sergeitch went on after a pause. “It’s an everyday story! I need money, and she … won’t give it to me. It was my father’s money that bought this house and everything, you know! It’s all mine, and the brooch belonged to my mother, and … it’s all mine! And she took it, took possession of everything.… I can’t go to law with her, you’ll admit.…I beg you most earnestly, overlook it … stay on. Tout comprendre, tout pardonner. Will you stay?”