A pretty curly-haired boy of about nine burst into the room and stopped suddenly on catching sight of her. He was dressed in a Highland costume, his legs bare, and was very much befrizzled and pomaded.
“What do you want, Kolia?” Valentina Mihailovna asked. Her voice was as soft and velvety as her eyes.
“Mamma,” the boy began in confusion, “auntie sent me to get some lilies-of-the-valley for her room.... She hasn’t got any—”
Valentina Mihailovna put her hand under her little boy’s chin and raised his pomaded head.
“Tell auntie that she can send to the gardener for flowers. These are mine. I don’t want them to be touched. Tell her that I don’t like to upset my arrangements. Can you repeat what I said?”
“Yes, I can,” the boy whispered.
“Well, repeat it then.”
“I will say ... I will say ... that you don’t want.”
Valentina Mihailovna laughed, and her laugh, too, was soft.
“I see that one can’t give you messages as yet. But never mind, tell her anything you like.”