"No. However, Beaumont was at that time in America."
"Really! Karl Yakovlich, come here just a moment. Did you meet in America that Russian of whom we are speaking?"
"No."
"It should be time for him to come back."
"Yes."
"What an idea came into my head," said Nikítin; "he would make a nice match for her."
"Gentlemen, some of you come and sing with me," said Viéra Pavlovna.—"So two of you want to come? So much the better!"
Mosolof and Nikítin stayed behind.
"I can show you an interesting thing, Nikítin," said Mosolof.—"What do you think—is she sleeping?"
"No."
"Only don't tell! You can tell her after you get better acquainted with her; but nobody else. She would not like it."
The windows of the apartment were low.
"This window, you see, is near the fire." Mosolof looked.
"That's it; do you see?"
The lady in mourning had moved her chair to the table, and was sitting down: with her left elbow she leaned on the table, the palm of her hand supported her drooping head, hiding her cheek and part of her hair. Her right hand was resting on the table, and her fingers were drumming mechanically, as though she were playing some tune. The lady's face had a fixed expression of melancholy, sorrowful but still more stern. Her eyebrows were lifting and drooping, lifting, drooping.
"Is it always so, Mosolof?"
"You see. However, let us come away, else we'll catch cold. It's already quarter-past ten."
"What a heartless fellow you are!" said Nikítin, looking keenly into his comrade's eyes as they passed by the lamp in the entry.
"You are getting sentimental, little brother. Is this your experience?"
Lunch was ready.
"What splendid vodka this is," said Nikítin; "how strong it is! It takes away your breath."
