'What are you afraid of?' said Zinaïda; 'allow me to inquire?'
^What am I afraid of? Why, you don't know how to ride. Lord save us, what might happen! What whim is this has come over you all of a sudden?'
'Come, that's my business. Sir Wild Beast. In that case I will ask Piotr Vassilievitch.' . . . (My father's name was Piotr Vassilievitch. I was surprised at her mentioning his name so lightly and freely, as though she were confident of his readiness to do her a service.)
'Oh, indeed,' retorted Byelovzorov, 'you mean to go out riding with him then?'
'With him or with some one else is nothing to do with you. Only not with you, anyway.'
'Not with me,' repeated Byelovzorov. 'As you wish. Well, I shall find you a horse.'
'Yes, only mind now, don't send some old cow. I warn you I want to gallop.'
'Gallop away by all means . . . with whom is it, with Malevsky, you are going to ride?'
'And why not with him, Mr. Pugnacity? Come, be quiet,' she added, 'and don't glare. I 'll take you too. You know that to my mind now Malevsky's—ugh!' She shook her head.
'You say that to console me,' growled Byelovzorov.
Zinaïda half closed her eyes. 'Does that
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