An hour and a half later the lieutenant awoke. He fancied in his sleep that someone touched him, bent over him, breathed over him. He fumbled, and pulled off the kerchief. Emilie was on her knees close beside him; the expression of her face struck him as queer. She jumped up at once, walked away to the window and put something away in her pocket.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch stretched.
"I've had a good long snooze, it seems!" he observed, yawning. "Come here, meine züsse Fräulein!"
Emilie went up to him. He sat up quickly, thrust his hand into her pocket and took out a small pair of scissors.
"Ach, Herr Je!" Emilie could not help exclaiming.
"It's ... it's a pair of scissors?" muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch.
"Why, of course. What did you think it was ... a pistol? Oh, how funny you look! You're as rumpled as a pillow and your hair is all standing up at the back.... And he doesn't laugh.... Oh, oh! And his eyes are puffy.... Oh!"
Emilie went off into a giggle.
"Come, that's enough," muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch, and he got up from the sofa. "That's enough giggling about nothing. If you can't think of anything more sensible, I'll go home.... I'll go home," he repeated, seeing that she was still laughing.
Emilie subsided.