'Yes; she has very regular features.'
'You have not got her portrait with you?'
'No,' (At that time photography was not yet talked off. Daguerrotypes had hardly begun to be common.)
'What's her name?'
'Her name is Gemma.'
'And yours?'
'Dimitri.'
'And your father's?'
'Pavlovitch.'
'Do you know,' Maria Nikolaevna said, still in the same drawling voice, 'I like you very much, Dimitri Pavlovitch. You must be an excellent fellow. Give me your hand. Let us be friends.'
She pressed his hand tightly in her beautiful, white, strong fingers. Her hand was a little smaller than his hand, but much warmer and smoother and whiter and more full of life.
'Only, do you know what strikes me?'
'What?'
'You won't be angry? No? You say she is betrothed to you. But was that . . . was that quite necessary?'
Sanin frowned. 'I don't understand you, Maria Nikolaevna,'
Maria Nikolaevna gave a soft low laugh, and shaking her head tossed back the hair that was
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