“And yours?”
“Dimitri.”
“And your father’s?”
“Pavlovitch.”
“Do you know,” Maria Nikolaevna said, still in the same drawling voice, “I like you very much, Dimitri Pavlovitch. You must be an excellent fellow. Give me your hand. Let us be friends.”
She pressed his hand tightly in her beautiful, white, strong fingers. Her hand was a little smaller than his hand, but much warmer and smoother and whiter and more full of life.
“Only, do you know what strikes me?”
“What?”
“You won’t be angry? No? You say she is betrothed to you. But was that … was that quite necessary?”
Sanin frowned. “I don’t understand you, Maria Nikolaevna.”