The boy looked at him open-eyed and did not utter a word. Yulian Mastakovitch looked round him again, and again bent down to the little girl.
"And what is this you've got—a dolly, dear child?" he asked.
"Yes, a dolly," answered the child, frowning, and a little shy.
"A dolly ... and do you know, dear child, what your dolly is made of?"
"I don't know ..." the child answered in a whisper, hanging her head.
"It's made of rags, darling. You had better go into the drawing-room to your playmates, boy," said Yulian Mastakovitch, looking sternly at the boy. The boy and girl frowned and clutched at each other. They did not want to be separated.
"And do you know why they gave you that doll?" asked Yulian Mastakovitch, dropping his voice to a softer and softer tone.
"I don't know."
"Because you have been a sweet and well-behaved child all the week."
At this point Yulian Mastakovitch, more excited than ever, speaking in most dulcet tones, asked at last, in a hardly audible voice choked with emotion and impatience—