The lady looked round at the room, glanced sideways at the man and the little girl, shrugged her shoulders, and moved to the window.  The dark windows were shaking from the damp west wind.  Big flakes of snow glistening in their whiteness, lay on the window frame, but at once disappeared, borne away by the wind.  The savage music grew louder and louder. . . .

After a long silence the little girl suddenly turned over, and said angrily, emphasizing each word: 

“Oh, goodness, goodness, how unhappy I am!  Unhappier than anyone!”

The man got up and moved with little steps to the child with a guilty air, which was utterly out of keeping with his huge figure and big beard.

“You are not asleep, dearie?” he said, in an apologetic voice.  “What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything, my shoulder aches!  You are a wicked man, Daddy, and God will punish you!  You’ll see He will punish you.”

“My darling, I know your shoulder aches, but what can I do, dearie?” said the man, in the tone in which men who have been drinking excuse themselves to their stern spouses.  “It’s the journey has made your shoulder ache, Sasha.  To-morrow we shall get there and rest, and the pain will go away. . . .”

“To-morrow, to-morrow. . . .  Every day you say to-morrow.  We shall be going on another twenty days.”

“But we shall arrive to-morrow, dearie, on your father’s word of honour.  I never tell a lie, but if we are detained by the snowstorm it is not my fault.”

“I can’t bear any more, I can’t, I can’t!”

Sasha jerked her leg abruptly and filled the room with an unpleasant wailing.  Her father made a despairing gesture, and looked hopelessly towards the young lady.  The latter shrugged her shoulders, and hesitatingly went up to Sasha.

“Listen, my dear,” she said, “it is no use crying.  It’s really naughty; if your shoulder aches it can’t be helped.”

“You see, Madam,” said the man quickly, as though defending himself, “we have not slept for two nights, and have been travelling in a revolting conveyance.  Well, of course, it is natural she should be ill and miserable, . . . and then, you know, we had a drunken driver, our portmanteau has been stolen . . . the snowstorm all the time, but what’s the use of crying, Madam?  I am exhausted, though, by sleeping in a sitting position, and I feel as though I were drunk.  Oh, dear!  Sasha, and I feel sick as it is, and then you cry!”

The man shook his head, and with a gesture of despair sat down.

“Of course you mustn’t cry,” said the young lady.  “It’s only little babies cry.  If you are ill, dear, you must undress and go to sleep. . . .  Let us take off your things!”