He opened the door with his hand and went in.
Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch had not heard the knock at the door, and only caught his mother's timid question, and had not had time to answer it.
Before him, at that moment, there lay a letter he had just read over, which he was pondering deeply.

He started, hearing Pyotr Stepanovitch's sudden outburst, and hurriedly put the letter under a paper-weight, but did not quite succeed; a corner of the letter and almost the whole envelope showed.
"I called out on purpose that you might be prepared," Pyotr Stepanovitch said hurriedly, with surprising naivete, running up to the table, and instantly staring at the corner of the letter, which peeped out from beneath the paper-weight.
"And no doubt you had time to see how I hid the letter I had just received, under the paper-weight," said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch calmly, without moving from his place.
"A letter?
Bless you and your letters, what are they to do with me ?" cried the visitor.

"But...

what does matter..." he whispered again, turning to the door, which was by now closed, and nodding his head in that direction.
"She never listens," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch observed coldly.
"What if she did overhear ?" cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, raising his voice cheerfully, and settling down in an arm-chair.

"I've nothing against that, only I've come here now to speak to you alone.