Mariana gazed at him for a long, long time, then said, as if to herself:
“You have also a nice face. I think it would be easy to get on with you.”
Nejdanov was touched; he took her hand again and raised it to his lips.
“No more gallantries!” she said laughing. Mariana always laughed when her hand was kissed. “I’ve done something very naughty and must ask you to forgive me.”
“What have you done?”
“Well, when you were away, I went into your room and saw a copy-book of verses lying on your table” (Nejdanov shuddered; he remembered having left it there), “and I must confess to you that I couldn’t overcome my curiosity and read the contents. Are they your verses?”
“Yes, they are. And do you know, Mariana, that one of the strongest proofs that I care for you and have the fullest confidence in you is that I am hardly angry at what you have done?”
“Hardly! Then you are just a tiny bit. I’m so glad you call me Mariana. I can’t call you Nejdanov, so I shall call you Alexai. There is a poem which begins, ‘When I die, dear friend, remember,’ is that also yours?”
“Yes. Only please don’t talk about this any more.... Don’t torture me.”
Mariana shook her head.