Pavlo flushed again. It was his shame and distress that amusement, pleasure, sorrow, or vexation should invariably have this humiliating result. Just now it was merely amusement, for he was accustomed to his father’s teasing and liked it, but yet he could have boxed his own ears for feeling his cheeks get hot.
“Oh, but you mustn’t come and beard me in my den with unseemly jokes, father!” he remonstrated. “Here I am quite a personage, I assure you. Especially,” he added, gracefully, “because I am Mamma’s son and yours. Oh yes, I am quite a personage!”
“God forbid that I should doubt it for a single instant, my boy,” solemnly rejoined Salvières. “And, by the way, our stay in Normandy will probably stretch over August and perhaps September, so I do not see what will prevent you from spending your autumn leave—after the manœuvers—with us.”
“That of course alters the case,” Pavlo said. “Speaking with all moderation, I believe that what you propose is feasible later on; ... at present, however....”
“The present,” Tatiana interposed, dogmatically, “is a thing without breadth or thickness, mon lieutenant, so let us pass it over. Also let me tell you as a further inducement to come to Normandy as soon as you can, that you will meet there your old friend the ‘Gamin,’ for your father and I are going to ask the Plenhöels to stay with us for a while.”
At the name of the “Gamin” the blood, which had begun to recede, once more flew its brilliant color to the very roots of Pavlo’s bright hair.
“The ‘Gamin,’ really?” he said, as casually as he could. “She must be quite a big girl now.”
Tatiana and Salvières were about to speak in chorus; but Piotr, who for once in his tender life had been silently listening, gave them no chance to do so. “Malou! my little darling Malou!” he shrieked, jumping into the air, rubber-ball wise. “Are we going to see little darling Malou?” He had become three shades redder than Pavlo himself, and his eyes were sparkling with joy.
“Dear me!” commented Salvières. “If this Piotr was a few short years older you could look to your laurels, Pavlo; he certainly is a most ardent lover of beauty.” But the ardent one was gambading like an escaped colt, and Pavlo hid his confusion by endeavoring to catch him, and as he put it, “to make him behave.”
“Now do your worst!” he cried, capturing the delighted child and pinioning his arms behind him. “Here one must be awfully serious, you know, Piotr, or one gets put under arrest.”