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"For not dilly-dallying and not hanging to a woman's apron

strings. The Service before everything. Thanks, thanks!" And he

went on writing, so that his quill spluttered and squeaked. "If

you have anything to say, say it. These two things can be done

together," he added.

"About my wife... I am ashamed as it is to leave her on your

hands...."

"Why talk nonsense? Say what you want."

"When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an

accoucheur.... Let him be here...."

The old prince stopped writing and, as if not understanding,

fixed his stern eyes on his son.

"I know that no one can help if nature does not do her work,"

said Prince Andrew, evidently confused. "I know that out of a

million cases only one goes wrong, but it is her fancy and mine.

They have been telling her things. She has had a dream and is

frightened."

"Hm... Hm..." muttered the old prince to himself, finishing what

he was writing. "I'll do it."

He signed with a flourish and suddenly turning to his son began

to laugh.