"I see that Aglaya Ivanovna was making fun of me," the prince replied sadly.
"Wait, brother; I'll go, but you wait. . . because . . . you at least explain to me, Lev Nikolaich, you at least: how did all this happen and what does it all mean, so to speak, as a whole?
You'll agree, brother, I am her father, I am after all her father, which is why I don't understand a thing; so you at least explain it."
"I love Aglaya Ivanovna; she knows that and . . . has known it, I think, for a long time."
The general heaved his shoulders.
"Strange, strange . . . and you love her very much?"
"Yes, very much."
"Strange, strange, I find it all.
That is, it's such a surprise and a blow that . . . You see, my dear, I'm not referring to your fortune (though I did expect that you had a bit more), but ... for me, my daughter's happiness . . . finally ... are you able, so to speak, to make that . . . happiness?
And . . . and . . . what is it, a joke or the truth on her side?
Not on yours, that is, but on her side?"
From behind the door came the voice of Alexandra Ivanovna: they were calling the father.
"Wait, brother, wait!
Wait and think it over, and I'll be . . ." he said in haste and almost fearfully rushed off to Alexandra's call.
He found his wife and daughter in each other's arms and flooding each other with their tears.
These were tears of happiness, tenderness, and reconciliation.
Aglaya kissed her mother's hands, cheeks, lips; the two clung warmly to each other.
"Well, there, look at her, Ivan Fyodorych, she's quite herself now!" said Lizaveta Prokofyevna.
Aglaya turned her happy and tear-bathed little face from her mother's bosom, looked at her father, laughed loudly, jumped over to him, embraced him tightly, and kissed him several times.
Then she rushed to her mother again and buried her face completely in her bosom, so that no one could see her, and at once began weeping again.
Lizaveta Prokofyevna covered her with the end of her shawl.
"Well, what is it, what is it you're doing to us, cruel girl that you are after that!" she said, but joyfully now, as if she suddenly could breathe more freely.
"Cruel! yes, cruel!" Aglaya suddenly picked up.
"Rotten!
Spoiled!
Tell papa that.
Ah, but he's here.
Papa, are you here?
Listen!" she laughed through her tears.
"My dearest, my idol!" the general, all beaming with happiness, kissed her hand. (Aglaya did not withdraw it.) "So it means that you love this . . . young man? ..."
"No, no, no!
I can't bear . . . your young man, I can't bear him!" Aglaya suddenly boiled over and raised her head. "And if you dare once more, papa . . . I'm saying it to you seriously; do you hear: I'm saying it seriously!"
And she indeed said it seriously: she even turned all red and her eyes shone.
Her father broke off and became frightened, but Lizaveta Prokofyevna made a sign to him behind Aglaya's back, and he understood that it meant: "Don't ask questions."
"If that is how you want it, my angel, it's as you will, he's waiting there alone; shouldn't we delicately hint to him that he should leave?"
The general in turn winked at Lizaveta Prokofyevna.
"No, no, that's quite superfluous, especially if it's 'delicate.' Go out to him; I'll come out afterwards, right away.
I want to ask forgiveness of this . . . young man, because I've hurt him."
"Very much so," Ivan Fyodorovich confirmed seriously.
"Well, so ... it will be better if you all stay here and I go alone first, and you follow me right away, that same second; that will be better."
She had already reached the door, but suddenly she came back.
"I'll burst out laughing!
I'll die of laughter!" she announced ruefully.
But that same second she turned and ran to the prince.
"Well, what is it?
What do you think?" Ivan Fyodorovich said hastily.
"I'm afraid even to say," Lizaveta Prokofyevna replied, also hastily, "but I think it's clear."
"I, too, think it's clear.
Clear as day.
She loves him."