'Yes.'

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, my good sir,' she began, again wiping her eyes with the ends of
her kerchief, 'really have any idea of the kind, and you are not intending
anything dishonourable to us, but on the contrary, wish to show us respect,
you'd better talk a bit with my other daughter. She'll tell you everything