For the moment, Mascha is so filled with childish desire for praise that she has no sense left for what is the dearest thing in the world for her--the tenderness of her father.
"If I only had a cheval glass in my room," sighed she. "I really have not seen myself yet." And, exhilarated by her father's praise, she climbs up on a stool, and, turning her head to all sides, she tries to see herself as well as possible in the glass over the chimney.
The chandelier sheds a golden light over her dark hair; the reflection of the fire flickers over her white dress. "Father, Colia," asks she, somewhat hesitatingly, "do you think that any one could ever fall in love with me?"
Just then "Herr Graf Bärenburg," calls the servant, and opens the door.
Blushing to the roots of her hair, Mascha springs down from the stool. Bärenburg has only had time to wonder at a pair of very white shoulders in the fullest light, then to see a pair of tiny feet appear from a fragrant cloud of valenciennes and muslin, and jump down to the ground.
"Well, what do you say to my vain daughter, Count Bärenburg?" asks Lensky, gayly, to help Mascha over her embarrassment.
Bärenburg shrugs his shoulders with an approving expression, and replies: "That I have never seen a pair of smaller feet, that is all." Lensky laughs, Nikolai frowns, and Maschenka, with a quick gesture, picks up the formerly discarded red cashmere scarf from the ground and wraps herself in it. Her bare shoulders suddenly annoy her. She is ashamed.
"Only so that you will not take cold," jokes Lensky, and teasingly draws the red scarf together under her chin. "She appears in the world to-day for the first time as a young lady," says he, turning to Bärenburg, and looks at him significantly. Does the conceited Austrian really remark how charming his little girl is?
The conceited Austrian notices it only too well. "The first evening dress. I congratulate you," says he, bowing respectfully to Mascha.
"I had no idea--" now begins Mascha.