"A good thing, too, my friend," she said, as unconcernedly as before.
"Give me the little angel," demanded Sashka, gruffly.
"But it's impossible. Can't you understand that?"
But Sashka did not understand, and when the lady turned to go out of the room he followed her, his gaze fixed without conscious thought upon her black silk dress. In his surging brain there glimmered a recollection of how one of the boys in his class had asked the master to mark him 3,[1] and when the master refused he had knelt down before him, and putting his hands together as in prayer, had begun to cry. The master was angry, but gave him 3 all the same. At the time Sashka had immortalised this episode in a caricature, but now his only means left was to follow the boy's example. Accordingly he plucked at the lady's dress again, and when she turned round, dropped with a bang on to his knees, and folded his hands as described above. But he could not squeeze out a single tear!
"Are you out of your mind?" exclaimed the grey-haired lady, casting a searching look round the room; but luckily no one was present.
"What is the matter with you?"
Kneeling there with clasped hands, Sashka looked at her with dislike, and rudely repeated:
"Give me the little angel."
- ↑ In Russian schools 5 is the maximum mark.—Tr.
