“The pope’s wife,” he repeated thoughtfully, without hearing her question, and the smile on her lips passed unobserved.
“Will you have some more coffee?”
“No. Do you care for Grandmother and Marfinka?”
“Whom else should I hold dear?”
“Well—me,” he retorted, jesting.
“You too,” she said, looking gaily at him, “if you deserve it.”
“How does one earn this good fortune?” he asked ironically.
“Love, they say, is blind, gives herself without any merit, is indeed blind,” she rejoined.
“Yet sometimes love comes consciously, by way of confidence, esteem and friendship. I should like to begin with the last, and end with the first. So what must one do, dear sister, to attract your attention.”
“Not to make such round eyes as you are doing now for instance, not to go into my room—without me, not to try to find out what my likes and dislikes are....”