The wine was brought. Tamara through importunity got pastry, besides. Jennka asked for permission to call in Little White Manka. Jennka herself did not drink, did not get up from the bed, and all the time muffled herself up in a gray shawl of Orenburg[24] manufacture, although it was hot in the room. She looked fixedly, without tearing her eyes away, at the handsome, sunburned face of Gladishev, which had become so manly.
[24] Orenburg has as high a reputation for woolens as Sheffield has for steel.—Trans.
“What’s the matter with you, dearie?” asked Gladishev, sitting down on her bed and stroking her hand.
“Nothing special... Head aches a little... I hit myself.”
“Well, don’t you pay any attention.”
“Well, here I’ve seen you, and already I feel better. How is it you haven’t been here for so long?”
“I couldn’t snatch away the time, nohow-camping. You know yourself... We had to put away twenty-five versts a day. The whole day drilling and drilling: field, formation, garrison. With a full pack. Used to get so fagged out from morning to night that towards evening you couldn’t feel your legs under you... We were at the manoeuvres also... It isn’t sweet...”
“Oh, you poor little things!” Little White Manka suddenly clasped her hands. “And what do they torture you for, angels that you are? If I was to have a brother like you, or a son—my heart would just simply bleed. Here’s to your health, little cadet!”
They clinked glasses. Jennka was just as attentively scrutinizing Gladishev.
“And you, Jennechka?” he asked, extending a glass.