“And why shouldn’t I ride with him, warrior? Come, quiet down. I’ll take you too. You know that for me Malévsky is now—fie!”—She shook her head.
“You say that just to console me,”—growled Byelovzóroff.
Zinaída narrowed her eyes.—“Does that console you? oh ... oh oh ... warrior!”—she said at last, as though unable to find any other word.—“And would you like to ride with us, M’sieu Voldemar?”
“I’m not fond of riding ... in a large party,” ... I muttered, without raising my eyes.
“You prefer a tête-à-tête?... Well, every one to his taste,”—she said, with a sigh.—“But go, Byelovzóroff, make an effort. I want the horse for to-morrow.”
“Yes; but where am I to get the money?”—interposed the old Princess.
Zinaída frowned.
“I am not asking any from you; Byelovzóroff will trust me.”
“He will, he will,” grumbled the old Princess—and suddenly screamed at the top of her voice:—“Dunyáshka!”
“Maman, I made you a present of a bell,”—remarked the young Princess.