Mascha invited her father to play bezique with her. He consented. But they were both so absentminded, played so foolishly, marked so confusedly, that they very soon, teasing each other with their mutual faults, lay down the cards.
Now Lensky absently builds card-houses on the table; Mascha crochets diligently on a child's dress.
"H-m! Your husband goes out often in the evening?" he asks, after a long, thoughtful silence.
"Yes," Mascha answers, calmly.
"And you? Do you go out much?"
"I? I am occupied with the baby."
"The child claims much of your time?"
"Yes," whispers Mascha, and a particularly tender expression creeps over her mouth. "But she is charming--or does she only seem so to me?"
"To me also," assures Lensky. "Just as you looked at her age."
"I hope that she will fare better than I." The young wife lowers her head, blushing deeply, still more over her work, and draws the little dress destined for Natascha to her lips.