"Very well, I'll come without fail, if they'll let me."
"Of course they'll let you. No one's holding you on a chain."
When she said good-bye, Liudmilla kissed Sasha's forehead, and put her hand to his lips—he had to kiss it. And Sasha was happy to kiss again her white, gentle hand—and a little shy. And why not? But Liudmilla, as she left, smiled archly and tenderly. And she looked back several times.
"How charming she is," thought Sasha. He was left alone.
"How soon she left," he thought. "She suddenly went and it's hard to realise that she's gone. She might have stayed a little longer." And he felt ashamed that he had not offered to escort her. "It wouldn't have been a bad idea to walk along with her," he thought. "Shall I run after her? Has she gone far, I wonder. Perhaps if I run fast I might overtake her."
"But perhaps she would laugh," he continued to himself. "And besides she might not like it."
And so he could not make up his mind to go after her. He suddenly felt depressed and uneasy. The gentle tremor from the contact of her hand still remained on his lips, and on his forehead her kiss still burned.
"How gently she kisses," Sasha mused. "Like a sweet sister."
Sasha's cheeks burned. He felt deliciously ashamed. Vague reveries stirred within him.
"If she were only my sister," thought Sasha tenderly, "then I might go to her and kiss her and say an affectionate word. Then I might call her 'Liudmillotchka dearest,' or I might call her by some special pet-name: 'Booba' or 'Strekoza.' And she would respond. Now that would be a joy.