“Dear—dear!” whispered Sashka.
His head became feverish. He clasped his hands behind his back, and in full readiness to fight to the death to win the little angel, he walked to and fro with cautious, stealthy steps. He avoided looking at the little angel, lest he should direct the attention of others towards him, but he felt that he was still there, and had not flown away.
Now the hostess appeared in the doorway, a tall, stately lady with a bright aureole of grey hair dressed high upon her head. The children trooped round her with expressions of delight, and the little girl—the same that had danced about in her place—hung wearily on her hand, blinking heavily with sleepy eyes.
As Sashka approached her he seemed almost choking with emotion.
“Auntie—auntie!”[1] said he, trying to speak caressingly, but his voice sounded harsher than ever. “Auntie, dear!”
She did not hear him, so he tugged impatiently at her dress.
“What’s the matter with you? Why are you pulling my dress?” said the grey-haired lady in surprise. “It’s rude.”
“Auntie—auntie, do give me one thing from the tree; give me the little angel.”
“Impossible,” replied the lady in a tone of indifference. “We are going to keep the tree decorated till the New Year. But you are no longer a child; you should call me by name—Maria Dmitrievna.”
Sashka, feeling as if he were falling down a precipice, grasped the last means of saving himself.