He stared first at Marfinka, then at her aunt, and asked whether she would try over a song with him.
“I will try it by myself, or in company with Grandmother.”
“Let us go into the park, and I will read you the new novel,” he then said, picking up the book.
“How could I do such a thing?” asked Marfinka, looking demurely at her aunt. “Do you think I am a child?”
“What is the meaning of this, Tatiana Markovna,” stammered Vikentev in amazement. “Marfa Vassilievna is unendurable.” He looked at both of them, walked into the middle of the room, assumed a sugary smile, bowed slightly, put his hat under his arm, and struggling in vain to drag his gloves on his moist hands began: “Mille pardons, mademoiselle, de vous avoir dérangée. Sacrebleu, ca n’entre pas. Oh mille pardons, mademoiselle.”
“Do stop, you foolish boy!”
Marfinka bit her lips, but could not help laughing.
“Just look at him, Granny! How can anybody keep serious when he mimics Monsieur Charles so nicely?”
“Stop, children,” cried Tatiana Markovna, her frown relaxing into smiles. “Go, and God be with you. Do whatever you like.”