Pyotr Dmitritch was lying on the sofa and pretending to read a
newspaper. There was a candle burning on a chair near him. His face
could not be seen behind the newspaper.

"Be so kind as to tell me what this means? I am asking you."

"Be so kind . . ." Pyotr Dmitritch mimicked her, not showing his
face. "It's sickening, Olga! Upon my honour, I am exhausted and not
up to it. . . . Let us do our quarrelling to-morrow."

"No, I understand you perfectly!" Olga Mihalovna went on. "You hate
me! Yes, yes! You hate me because I am richer than you! You will
never forgive me for that, and will always be lying to me!" ("Feminine
logic!" flashed through her mind again.) "You are laughing at me
now. . . . I am convinced, in fact, that you only married me in
order to have property qualifications and those wretched horses. . . .
Oh, I am miserable!"

Pyotr Dmitritch dropped the newspaper and got up. The unexpected
insult overwhelmed him. With a childishly helpless smile he looked
desperately at his wife, and holding out his hands to her as though
to ward off blows, he said imploringly:

"Olya!"

And expecting her to say something else awful, he leaned back in
his chair, and his huge figure seemed as helplessly childish as his
smile.