THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME
Peter Antònovitch was quick to apologise.
"Ah, pardon me, please. I am sorry that this is such an out-of-the-way place; it's quite impossible to get a carriage."
He began to walk in the direction of his home, and Turandina went with him. She did not walk as though she were tired; her feet seemed hardly to touch the ground, though they had to walk over stiff clay and sharp stones, and the moist grass and rain-soaked pathway did not seem to soil her little feet.
When they reached the high bank of the river and could see the first houses of the village, Peter Antònovitch glanced uneasily at his companion and said somewhat awkwardly:
"Pardon me, dear young lady …"
Turandina looked at him, and with a little frown interrupted him, saying reproachfully:
"Hast thou forgotten who I am and what is my name? I am Turandina, and not 'dear young lady.' I am the daughter of King Turandon."
"Your pardon, please, Mademoiselle Turandina—it is a very beautiful name, though it is never used now—I wanted to ask you a question."
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