"Why, next to nothing. Perhaps one ruble a week. That leaves us—"
"And Sabbaths and holidays! Child, what are you thinking of?" And the word "child" falls so softly, so kindly, from his lips, that she must needs smile.
"Come, say the Blessing, quick!" she says, "and let other things be till to-morrow. It's time to go to sleep."
Then she feels ashamed, lowers her eyelids, and says as if she were excusing herself:
"You come so late!" with a yawn that is half a sham.
He leans toward her across the little table.
"Silly child," he whispers, "I come in late on purpose, so that we may eat together, do you see? For a teacher, you know, it's not the thing."
"Well, well, say the Blessing!" she repeats, shutting her eyes tighter. He closes his, he wants to say it seriously. But his eyes keep opening of themselves. He presses down his eyelids, but there remains a chink through which he sees her, in a strangely colored light, so that he cannot do otherwise than look at her. She is tired—he feels sorry for her. He sees her trying to sit further back on the bed and letting her head rest against the wall. She will go to sleep like that, he thinks.
"Why not take a pillow?" he would like to say, almost crossly, but he cannot—ahem, ahem—
But she doesn't hear. He hurries through the Blessing, finishes it, stands up, and there remains, not knowing what to do next.