There was a rustling the other side of the door. A yellow streak of light quivered in the air.
"Who is there?"
"I, Vassa Sidorovna—Gratschev."
"Oh! The door opened and a little dried-up old woman, with a big nose in her shrivelled face, held the candle up to Pavel's face, and said in a friendly way:
"Good evening, Pashka. Vyerunka has been waiting for you for a long time, and is quite cross. Who's that with you?"
"A friend."
"Who is it?" came a pleasant voice out of a long, dark corridor.
"A visitor for Vyera," said the old woman.
"Vyera, here's your sweetheart," cried the same clear voice, ringing through the corridor. At once at the end of the passage a door opened and the dainty figure of a girl, dressed in white, appeared in the bright patch of light, with her thick fair hair streaming round her face.
"How late you are!" she said, in a deep alto voice, pouting. Then she stood on the tips of her toes, put her hands on Pavel's shoulders, and looked at Ilya out of her soft brown eyes.