That evening Ivanka put her arms round my neck, told me she loved Nicholas because of his kindness to her father, and besought me earnestly to tell her what had passed between us.
A good deal amused, I told her as much as I thought she could understand.
“Oh! I should so like to see Bella,” she said.
“So you shall, dear, when she comes.”
“Does she speak Russian?”
“Yes. She has been several times in Russia, and understands the language well.”
As I had predicted, Bella arrived a few days after receiving my letter. My mother accompanied her.
“Oh, Jeff, this is dreadful!” said my poor mother, as she untied her bonnet-strings, and sat down on the sofa beside Bella, who could not for some time utter a word.
“What child is that?” added my mother quickly, observing Ivanka.
“It is the daughter of Dobri Petroff.—Let me introduce you, Ivanka, to my mother, and to my sister Bella—you know Bella?”