I asked for the honour of a dance and she gave me her programme, telling me I might write my name where I would. As it was empty, this seemed a generous invitation; but I scribbled my initials against two dances, and was then going to move off.
She glanced at the programme and smiled. I cannot describe the effect which a smile produced on her face.
"I had purposely kept the next dance for you, Lieutenant," she said. "But I see your reputation has somewhat belied you."
"My reputation?"
"Yes. But I have much I should like to say to you. I have heard of you often; as a daring man even among Russia's most daring; and not always as modest as brave."
"Rumour is often an unreliable witness," said I.
"She has not always spoken kindly of you, Lieutenant. But to see you is enough to test the truth of her tales." She accompanied this with a glance of especially subtle flattery, as she made place for me to sit by her, and then drew me to talk by questioning me, always giving in her answer a suggestion of keen personal interest in me.
We danced that next dance, and she declared that I waltzed better than any man in the room; and at the close of the dance she asked me to take her to one of the conservatories, under the pretext that she was heated. We sat there during two dances, until the first that I had initialled came, and then we danced again.
All the time she fascinated me with her manner and the infinite subtlety with which she implied the admiration she felt for my bravery, my skill as a soldier and a swordsman, my strength—everything in short: while she was loud in the expression of the interest with which she said she should take in my future.
At the close of the dance she sent me to fetch my sister; and when I presented her she made Olga sit down at her side and presently sent me away, saying that women's friendship ripened much more quickly when they were alone—especially if they were interested in the same man. All of which would no doubt have been very sound philosophy—had Olga been my sister in reality.