“How often have I told you that this is wicked. It is bad for you and for them.”
“It’s all the same to them,” said Kirsha quietly.
“How do you know?” asked Trirodov.
Kirsha shrugged his shoulders and said obstinately:
“Why are they here? What are they to us?”
Trirodov turned away, then rose abruptly, went to the window, and looked gloomily into the garden. Clearly something was agitating his consciousness, something that needed deciding. Kirsha quietly walked up to him, stepping softly upon the white, warm floor with his sunburnt graceful feet, high in instep, and with long, beautiful, well-formed toes. He touched his father on the shoulder, quietly rested his sunburnt hand there, and said:
“You know, daddy, that I seldom do this, only when I must. I felt very much troubled to-day. I knew that something would happen.”
“What will happen?” asked his father.
“I have a feeling,” said Kirsha with a pleading voice, “that you must let them in to us—these inquisitive girls.”
Trirodov looked very attentively at his son and smiled. Kirsha said gravely: