“Ha, at last! Now I’ll go out, cost what it may,” shouted Romashov in a jubilant voice.
“Romashov, you mad creature! what are you doing?”
He caught her outstretched hand through the window; it was closely covered by a cinnamon-coloured glove, and he began boldly to kiss it, first upwards and downwards, and after that from the finger-tips to the wrist. Last of all, he kissed the hole in the glove just below the buttons. He was astonished at his boldness; never before had he ventured to do this. Shurochka submitted as though unconscious to this passionate burst of affection, and smilingly accepted his kisses whilst gazing at him in shy wonderment.
“Alexandra Petrovna, you are an angel. How shall I ever be able to thank you?”
“Gracious, Romochka! what has come to you? And why are you so happy?” she asked laughingly as she eyed Romashov with persistent curiosity. “But wait, my poor prisoner, I have brought you from home a splendid kalátsch and the most delicious apple puffs.”
“Stepan, bring the basket here.”
He looked at her with devotion in his eyes, and without letting go her hand, which she allowed to remain unresistingly in his, he said hurriedly—
“Oh, if you knew all I have been thinking about this morning—if you only knew! But of this, later on.”
“Yes, later on. Look, here comes my lord and master. Let go my hand. How strange you look to-day! I even think you have grown handsome.”
Nikoläiev now came up to the window. He frowned, and greeted Romashov in a rather cool and reserved way.