TATYÁNA. But what does yours tell you?
BABÁYEV. Yes, but, Tánya, you don't believe me; you say that I'm making believe, and yet you are asking questions. But how could I deceive you?
TATYÁNA. You aren't a bit interested! You're just talking.
BABÁYEV. Don't be afraid; I'll not deceive! Why should I deceive you? [Leans towards her; she listens with downcast eyes] I'll tell you what, Tánya! My heart tells me that I have never loved any one as I do you. It's all the same whether you believe me or not. But I will prove that it is the truth, and you yourself will agree with me. Why, I don't tell you that I've never seen women more beautiful than you, or cleverer. Then you might tell me to my face that I lied. No, I have seen more beautiful women than you, and cleverer; but I have never seen such a darling, charming, artless little woman as you.
TATYÁNA. [Sighing] Artless—Ah, you speak the truth.
BABÁYEV. Well, I've told you what I feel. Why don't you tell me?
TATYÁNA. What should I say? I don't know how. I might say more than you.
But why say anything—you know yourself.
BABÁYEV. That is, possibly, I guess, but——
TATYÁNA. Why "but"? There's nothing to be said!
BABÁYEV. Yes, there is. I guess the secret but I get no good from it. [Pause] Tell me yourself that you love me! Well, how about it, Tánya?