Volodya suddenly wished to reproduce these shadows. Of course there was no use trying now, in the uncertain light of a late autumn afternoon.
He had better try it later in his own room. In any case, it was of no use to any one.
Just then he heard the approaching footsteps and voice of his mother. He flushed for some reason or other and quickly put the leaflet into his pocket, and left the piano to meet her. She looked at him with a caressing smile as she came toward him; her pale, handsome face greatly resembled his, and she had the same large eyes.
She asked him, as she always did: “Well, what’s the news to-day?”
“There’s nothing new,” said Volodya dejectedly.
But it occurred to him at once that he was being ungracious, and he felt ashamed. He smiled genially and began to recall what had happened at school; but this only made him feel sadder.
“Pruzhinin has again distinguished himself,” and he began to tell about the teacher who was disliked by his pupils for his rudeness. “Lentyev was reciting his lesson and made a mess of it, and so Pruzhinin said to him: ‘Well, that’s enough; sit down, blockhead!’”
“Nothing escapes you,” said his mother, smiling.
“He’s always rude.”
After a brief silence Volodya sighed, then complained: “They are always in a hurry.”