“Where?”
“In the city of Simbirsk.”
“Simbirsk?” repeated Foma like an echo, feeling that he was again unable to say a word.
But she evidently understood with whom she had to deal, and she suddenly asked him in a bold whisper:
“Why don’t you treat me to something?”
“Here!” Foma gave a start. “Indeed, how queer I am? Well, then, come up to the table.”
He bustled about in the dark, pushed the table, took up one bottle, then another, and again returned them to their place, laughing guiltily and confusedly as he did so. She came up close to him and stood by his side, and, smiling, looked at his face and at his trembling hands.
“Are you bashful?” she suddenly whispered.
He felt her breath on his cheek and replied just as softly:
“Yes.”