“No, you wait a while, Tamara, don’t. I’ll see. Send him here to me. Say that I’m not well, that my head aches.”
“I have already told him, anyway, that Zociya had opened the door unsuccessfully and hit you on the head; and that you’re lying down with a cold pack. But the only thing is, is it worth while, Jennechka?”
“Whether it’s worth while or not, that’s not your business, Tamara,” answered Jennka rudely.
Tamara asked cautiously:
“Is it possible, then, that you aren’t at all, at all sorry?”
“But for me you aren’t sorry?” and she passed her hand over the red stripe that slashed her throat. “And for yourself you aren’t sorry? And not sorry for this Liubka, miserable as she is? And not sorry for Pashka? You’re huckleberry jelly, and not a human being!”
Tamara smiled craftily and haughtily:
“No, when it comes to a real matter, I’m not jelly. Perhaps you’ll see this soon, Jennechka. Only let’s better not quarrel—as it is it isn’t any too sweet to live. All right, I’ll go at once and send him to you.”
When she had gone away, Jennka lowered the light in the little hanging blue lantern, put on her night blouse, and lay down. A minute later Gladishev walked in; and after him Tamara, dragging Petrov by the hand, who resisted and kept his head down. And in the rear was thrust in the pink, sharp, foxy little phiz of the cross-eyed housekeeper Zociya.
“And that’s fine, now,” the housekeeper commenced to bustle. “It’s just sweet to look at; two handsome gents and two swell dames. A regular bouquet. What shall I treat you with, young people? Will you order beer or wine?”