in the earlier part of the evening,
was due, among other reasons, to the latter's connection with Nastasia
Philipovna, according to popular report. He had heard a good deal of
this story here and there, and was greatly interested in it, so much so
that he longed to ask further questions about it.

Princess Bielokonski, as she drove away on this eventful evening, took
occasion to say to Lizabetha Prokofievna:

"Well--he's a good match--and a bad one; and if you want my opinion,
more bad than good. You can see for yourself the man is an invalid."

Lizabetha therefore decided that the prince was impossible as a husband
for Aglaya; and during the ensuing night she made a vow that never while
she lived should he marry Aglaya. With this resolve firmly impressed
upon her mind, she awoke next day; but during the morning, after her
early lunch, she fell into a condition of remarkable inconsistency.

In reply to a very guarded question of her sisters', Aglaya had answered
coldly, but exceedingly haughtily:

"I have never given him my word at all, nor have I ever counted him as
my future husband--never in my life. He is just as little to me as all
the rest."

Lizabetha Prokofievna suddenly flared up.

"I did not expect that of you, Aglaya," she said. "He is an impossible
husband for you,--I know it; and thank God that we agree upon that
point; but I did not expect to hear such words from you. I thought I
should hear a very different tone from you. I would have turned out
everyone who was in the room last night and kept him,--that's the sort
of man he is, in my opinion!"

Here she suddenly paused, afraid of what she had just said. But she
little knew how unfair she was to her daughter at that moment. It was
all settled in Aglaya's mind. She was only waiting for the hour that
would bring the matter to a final climax; and every hint, every careless
probing of her wound, did but further lacerate her heart.

VIII.

THIS same morning dawned for the prince pregnant with no less painful
presentiments,--which fact his physical state was, of course, quite
enough to account for; but he was so indefinably melancholy,--his
sadness could not attach itself to anything in particular, and this
tormented him more than anything else. Of course certain facts stood
before him, clear and painful, but his sadness went beyond all that he
could remember or imagine; he realized that he was powerless to console
himself unaided. Little by little