Weeping, the mother said: “Who knows—perhaps when you grow up, something of the sort will really happen. We’ve heard of such things in our time.”
THE WHITE MOTHER
I
Easter was near. Esper Constantinovich Saksaoolov was in a painful and undecided state of mind. It seemed to have begun when he was asked at the Gorodischevs: “Where are you greeting the holiday?”
Saksaoolov, for some reason, did not reply at once. The housewife, who was stout, short-sighted and fussy, went on: “Come to us.”
Saksaoolov felt vexed—most likely at the young girl, who at the words of her mother gave him a quick glance, then averted it, and continued her conversation with a professor’s young assistant.
Mothers of grown daughters saw a possible husband in Saksaoolov, which annoyed him. He considered himself an old bachelor at thirty-seven.
He answered sharply: “Thank you. But I always pass that night at home.”
The girl glanced at him with a smile and asked: “With whom?”
“Alone,” answered Saksaoolov with a shade of astonishment in his voice.