“Why, that you would dance the mazurka with me.”
“Yes, of course I will dance it with you.”
The young man who stood alongside Nadézhda Alexyéevna suddenly flushed crimson.
“You have probably forgotten, mademoiselle,”—he began,—“that you had already previously promised to-day’s mazurka to me.”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna became confused.
“Akh! good heavens, what am I to do?”—she said:—“excuse me, pray, M’sieu Steltchínsky, I am so absent-minded; I really am ashamed....”
M’sieu Steltchínsky made no reply, and merely dropped his eyes; Vladímir Sergyéitch assumed a slight air of dignity.
“Be so good, M’sieu Steltchínsky,”—went on Nadézhda Alexyéevna; “you and I are old acquaintances, but M’sieu Astákhoff is a stranger among us; do not place me in an awkward position: permit me to dance with him.”
“As you please,”—returned the young man.—“But you must begin.”
“Thanks,”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna, and fluttered off to meet her vis-à-vis.