'What is it, Kolya?' she asked. Her voice was as soft and velvety as her eyes.
'Well, mamma', the boy began in confusion, 'auntie sent me here. . . . She told me to bring her some lilies-of-the-valley . . . for her room. . . . She has none.'
Valentina Mihalovna took her little son by the chin and lifted his little pomaded head.
'Tell your auntie to send to the gardener for lilies; those lilies are mine. . . . I don't want them touched. Tell her I don't like my arrangements disarranged. Can you repeat my words?'
'Yes, I can . . .' muttered the boy.
'Well, then, . . . say them.'
'I will say . . . I will say . . . you won't let her have them.'
Valentina Mihalovna laughed. Her laugh, too, was soft.
'I see it's no use giving you messages. Well, never mind; tell her anything you think of.'
The boy hurriedly kissed his mother's hand, which was completely covered with rings, and rushed headlong away.
Valentina Mihalovna followed him with her eyes, sighed, and went up to a cage of gold wire, on the walls of which a green parrot was clambering, warily hooking on by his beak and
52
