her neck. Everything about her seemed overflowing with kindness and sympathetic tenderness, a restrained, emboldening tenderness─everything: the subdued brilliance of her half-closed eyes, the soft languor of her voice, her gestures, her very gait. Madame Sipyagin conducted Nezhdanov to her boudoir, a bright, charming room, filled with the scent of flowers and perfumes, the pure freshness of a woman's garments, a woman's constant presence; she made him sit down in an easy-chair, seated herself near him, and began to question him about his journey, about Markelov's doings, with such tact, such gentleness, such sweetness! She showed sincere interest in her brother, whom, till then, she had not once mentioned in Nezhdanov's hearing; from some of her words it could be gathered that the feeling Marianna had inspired in him had not escaped her; her tone was slightly mournful . . . whether because his feeling was not reciprocated by Marianna, or because her brother's choice had fallen on a girl he really knew nothing of, was left undefined. But what was principally clear: she was obviously trying to win Nezhdanov, to arouse his confidence in her, to make him cease to be shy. Valentina Mihalovna went so far as to reproach him a little for having a false idea of her.
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