"What's the matter?" said the little lady, addressing the door.
_"Où est mon cravatte lequel mon père m'avait envoyé de Koursk?"_ asked a female voice at the door.
_"Ah, est-ce que, Marie . . . que_. . . Really, it's impossible . . . . _Nous avons donc chez nous un homme peu connu de nous._ Ask Lukerya."
"How well we speak French, though!" I read in the eyes of the little lady, who was flushing with pleasure.
Soon afterwards the door opened and I saw a tall, thin girl of nineteen, in a long muslin dress with a gilt belt from which, I remember, hung a mother-of-pearl fan. She came in, dropped a curtsy, and flushed crimson. Her long nose, which was slightly pitted with smallpox, turned red first, and then the flush passed up to her eyes and her forehead.
"My daughter," chanted the little lady, "and, Manetchka, this is a young gentleman who has come," etc.
I was introduced, and expressed my surprise at the number of paper patterns. Mother and daughter dropped their eyes.
"We had a fair here at Ascension," said the mother; "we always buy materials at the fair, and then it keeps us busy with sewing till the next year's fair comes around again. We never put things out to be made. My husband's pay is not very ample, and we are not able to permit ourselves luxuries. So we have to make up everything ourselves."
"But who will ever wear such a number of things? There are only two of you?"
"Oh . . . as though we were thinking of wearing them! They are not to be worn; they are for the trousseau!"