“Zina!” screamed the princess in the drawing-room, “Byelovzorov has brought you a kitten.”
“A kitten!” cried Zinaïda, and getting up from her chair impetuously, she flung the ball of worsted on my knees and ran away.
I too got up and, laying the skein and the ball of wool on the window-sill, I went into the drawing-room and stood still, hesitating. In the middle of the room, a tabby kitten was lying with outstretched paws; Zinaïda was on her knees before it, cautiously lifting up its little face. Near the old princess, and filling up almost the whole space between the two windows, was a flaxen curly-headed young man, a hussar, with a rosy face and prominent eyes.
“What a funny little thing!” Zinaïda was saying; “and its eyes are not grey, but green, and what long ears! Thank you, Viktor Yegoritch! you are very kind.”
The hussar, in whom I recognised one of the young men I had seen the evening before, smiled and bowed with a clink of his spurs and a jingle of the chain of his sabre.
“You were pleased to say yesterday that you wished to possess a tabby kitten with long ears … so I obtained it. Your word is law.” And he bowed again.
The kitten gave a feeble mew and began sniffing the ground.
“It’s hungry!” cried Zinaïda. “Vonifaty, Sonia! bring some milk.”
A maid, in an old yellow gown with a faded kerchief at her neck, came in with a saucer of milk and set it before the kitten. The kitten started, blinked, and began lapping.
“What a pink little tongue it has!” remarked Zinaïda, putting her head almost on the ground and peeping at it sideways under its very nose.