He timidly took his seat at a distance from her, and fingered the little parcel on his knee.
An oppressive silence fell upon us, I furtively watching the youth, he longingly gazing at his bride. Finally he began to undo his parcel, and his movements were so like those of a little boy that I was ready to weep for him.
The parcel disclosed a beautifully embroidered pair of Turkish slippers. I suppose they were the prettiest he could buy, but even at a glance I knew that they were far too large for Nashan.
He rose and advanced timidly, his offering in his hand.
“I brought you these,” he said pleadingly. He looked at the slippers and then at her. “They were so lovely I could not help buying them for you.”
He sat down on the floor at her feet, and tried to bring the slippers within her notice.
“Let me put them on your pretty feet,” he begged.
She neither replied, nor by the slightest movement betrayed that she was aware of his existence. She was sitting on a chair, like a European. Her knees were crossed, and one foot dangled before him, as if inviting the new slippers.
By a tremendous effort he summoned up courage to slip the Turkish slipper on her foot, over the French shoe, and even then it was too large. It hung suspended for a minute from her unresponsive toe, and fell to the floor.
I laughed more from nervousness than from mirth.