'Alyosha, you know that when you tell me as an honest man—and I shall believe you, for you really are an honest man—when you tell me that you love me with that love . . . well, that love that gives one a right to another person's life,—when you tell me that, I am yours.'
Nezhdanov blushed and turned a little away.
'When I tell you that. . .'
'Yes, then! But you see yourself you do not tell me so now. . ., Oh, yes, Alyosha, you certainly are an honest man. There, let us talk of matters of more importance.'
'But you know I love you, Marianna!'
'I don't doubt that . . . and I shall wait. There, I've not quite put your writing-table to rights yet. Here's something still wrapped up, something stiff.'
Nezhdanov jumped up from his chair.
'Let that be, Marianna.. . . Please . . . leave that alone.'
Marianna turned her head over her shoulder to look at him, and raised her eyebrows in amazement.
'Is it a mystery? A secret? You have a secret?'
'Yes . . . yes,' said Nezhdanov, and greatly disconcerted he added, by way of explanation, 'It's . . . a portrait.'
110
