“A house without a mistress,” answered Stchemilov, rather confused.
Elisaveta began to put things in order and to clean and to scrub. She moved about with agile grace. Stchemilov admired her graceful limbs; it was fascinating to watch the play of the muscles under the brown skin of her calves. He exclaimed in a clear, almost ecstatic voice:
“How graceful you are, Elisaveta! Like a statue! I never saw such arms and legs.”
“I feel embarrassed, comrade Aleksei. You praise me to my eyes as if I were a charming piece of property.”
Stchemilov suddenly flushed with embarrassment; his habitual self-assurance appeared to have left him unexpectedly. He breathed heavily and stammered out in confusion:
“Comrade Elisaveta, you are a fine person. Don’t be offended at my words. I love you. I know that for you social inequality is a silly thing; and you know that for me your money is of no account. Now if I am not repugnant to you....”
Elisaveta stood before him calm and yet sad, and as she dried her hands, grown red from the cold water, with a towel, she said quietly:
“Forgive me, comrade Aleksei—you are right about my views, but I love another.”
She herself did not know how these words came to be spoken. Love another! So unexpectedly the secret of her heart revealed itself in superficial words. But did he love her, that other one?
They were both flustered. Stchemilov strove heroically to control his agitation. As he looked with his confused eyes into her clear blue ones he said: