The song filled his heart with thirst for tenderness and, still full of charming sounds, it quivered, but at the touch of her arm he felt awkward and ashamed before the other people.
“Bravo-o! Bravo, Aleksandra Sarelyevna!” shouted Ookhtishchev, and the others were clapping their hands. But she paid no attention to them, and embracing Foma authoritatively, said:
“Well, make me a present of something for the song.”
“Very well, I will,” Foma assented.
“What?”
“You tell me.”
“I’ll tell you when we come to town. And if you’ll give me what I like—Oh, how I will love you!”
“For the present?” asked Foma, smiling suspiciously. “You ought to love me anyway.”
She looked at him calmly and, after a moment’s thought, said resolutely:
“It’s too soon to love you anyway. I will not lie. Why should I lie to you? I am telling you frankly. I love you for money, for presents. Because aside from money, men have nothing. They cannot give anything more than money. Nothing of worth. I know it well already. One can love merely so. Yes, wait a little—I’ll know you better and then, perhaps, I may love you free of charge. And meanwhile, you mustn’t take me amiss. I need much money in my mode of life.”