“‘Tis a wonder she did not try to borrow money,”—remarked my mother.
“She is very likely to do it,”—said my father, calmly.—“Does she speak French?”
“Very badly.”
“M-m-m. However, that makes no difference. I think thou saidst that thou hadst invited her daughter; some one assured me that she is a very charming and well-educated girl.”
“Ah! Then she does not take after her mother.”
“Nor after her father,”—returned my father.—“He was also well educated, but stupid.”
My mother sighed, and became thoughtful. My father relapsed into silence. I felt very awkward during the course of that conversation.
After dinner I betook myself to the garden, but without my gun. I had pledged my word to myself that I would not go near the “Zasyékin garden”; but an irresistible force drew me thither, and not in vain. I had no sooner approached the fence than I caught sight of Zinaída. This time she was alone. She was holding a small book in her hands and strolling slowly along the path. She did not notice me. I came near letting her slip past; but suddenly caught myself up and coughed.
She turned round but did not pause, put aside with one hand the broad blue ribbon of her round straw hat, looked at me, smiled quietly, and again riveted her eyes on her book.
I pulled off my cap, and after fidgeting about a while on one spot, I went away with a heavy heart. “Que suis-je pour elle?”—I thought (God knows why) in French.