Vostryakov's not here, nor Yahontov, nor Vladimirov, nor Shevud,
nor the Count. . . . There is no one, I imagine, more Conservative
than Count Alexey Petrovitch, yet even he has not come. And he never
will come again. He won't come, you will see!"

"My God! but what has it to do with me?" asked Olga Mihalovna.

"What has it to do with you? Why, you are his wife! You are clever,
you have had a university education, and it was in your power to
make him an honest worker!"

"At the lectures I went to they did not teach us how to influence
tiresome people. It seems as though I should have to apologize to
all of you for having been at the University," said Olga Mihalovna
sharply. "Listen, uncle. If people played the same scales over and
over again the whole day long in your hearing, you wouldn't be able
to sit still and listen, but would run away. I hear the same thing
over again for days together all the year round. You must have pity
on me at last."

Her uncle pulled a very long face, then looked at her searchingly
and twisted his lips into a mocking smile.

"So that's how it is," he piped in a voice like an old woman's. "I
beg your pardon!" he said, and made a ceremonious bow. "If you have
fallen under his influence yourself, and have abandoned your
convictions, you should have said so before. I beg your pardon!"

"Yes, I have abandoned my convictions," she cried. "There; make the
most of it!"