“Look how pretty he is,” said Grushenka, taking Mitya up to him. “I was combing his hair just now; his hair’s like flax, and so thick....”
And, bending over him tenderly, she kissed his forehead. Kalganov instantly opened his eyes, looked at her, stood up, and with the most anxious air inquired where was Maximov?
“So that’s who it is you want.” Grushenka laughed. “Stay with me a minute. Mitya, run and find his Maximov.”
Maximov, it appeared, could not tear himself away from the girls, only running away from time to time to pour himself out a glass of liqueur. He had drunk two cups of chocolate. His face was red, and his nose was crimson; his eyes were moist and mawkishly sweet. He ran up and announced that he was going to dance the “sabotière.”
“They taught me all those well‐bred, aristocratic dances when I was little....”
“Go, go with him, Mitya, and I’ll watch from here how he dances,” said Grushenka.
“No, no, I’m coming to look on, too,” exclaimed Kalganov, brushing aside in the most naïve way Grushenka’s offer to sit with him. They all went to look on. Maximov danced his dance. But it roused no great admiration in any one but Mitya. It consisted of nothing but skipping and hopping, kicking up the feet, and at every skip Maximov slapped the upturned sole of his foot. Kalganov did not like it at all, but Mitya kissed the dancer.
“Thanks. You’re tired perhaps? What are you looking for here? Would you like some sweets? A cigar, perhaps?”
“A cigarette.”
“Don’t you want a drink?”