hanger-on, 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 as 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 wounded, 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 as Confession? Do you? Listen; you
want me to tell you what I won't tell the priest on my deathbed?"