'I have been cold to you, I know,' began Zinaïda, ' but you mustn't pay attention to that . . . I couldn't help it.. . . Come, why talk about it!'
'You don't want me to love you, that's what it is!' I cried gloomily, in an involuntary outburst.
'No, love me, but not as you did.'
'How then?'
'Let us be friends—come now!' Zinaïda gave me the rose to smell. 'Listen, you know I 'm much older than you—I might be your aunt, really; well, not your aunt, but an older sister. And you . . .'
'You think me a child,' I interrupted.
'Well, yes, a child, but a dear, good clever one, whom I love very much. Do you know what? From this day forth I confer on you the rank of page to me; and don't you forget that pages have to keep close to their ladies. Here is the token of your new dignity,' she added, sticking the rose in the buttonhole of my jacket, 'the token of my favour.'
'I once received other favours from you,' I muttered.
'Ah!' commented Zinaïda, and she gave me a sidelong look, 'What a memory he has! Well? I 'm quite ready now . . .' And stooping to me, she imprinted on my forehead a pure, tranquil kiss.
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