Madame Milovidov gave herself a sudden shake. 'Why, are you an author? Do you write for the newspapers?'
'No, I 'm not an author — and hitherto I have not written for the newspapers.'
The widow bowed her head. She was puzzled.
'Then, I suppose . . . it's from your own interest in the matter?' she asked suddenly. Aratov could not find an answer for a minute.
'Through sympathy, from respect for talent,' he said at last.
The word 'respect' pleased Madame Milovidov. 'Eh!' she pronounced with a sigh . . .
'I 'm her mother, any way — and terribly I 'm grieved for her. . . . Such a calamity all of a sudden ! . . . But I must say it : a crazy girl she
always was — and what a way to meet with her end! Such a disgrace. . . . Only fancy what it was for a mother? we must be thankful indeed that they gave her a Christian burial. . . .' Madame Milovidov crossed herself 'From a child up she minded no one — she left her parent's house . . . and at last — sad to say! — turned actress! Every one knows I never shut my doors upon her; I loved her, to be sure! I was her mother, any way! she'd no need to live with strangers . . . or to go begging! . . .' Here the widow shed tears . . . ' But if you,
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