“Well, this is nice of you to come,” said Sophia Ivanovna, kissing him.  “Mary is not well, got tired in church; we have been to communion.”

“I congratulate you, Aunt Sophia,” [it is usual in Russia to congratulate those who have received communion] said Nekhludoff, kissing Sophia Ivanovna’s hand.  “Oh, I beg your pardon, I have made you wet.”

“Go to your room—­why you are soaking wet.  Dear me, you have got moustaches! . . .  Katusha!  Katusha!  Get him some coffee; be quick.”

“Directly,” came the sound of a well-known, pleasant voice from the passage, and Nekhludoff’s heart cried out “She’s here!” and it was as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds.

Nekhludoff, followed by Tikhon, went gaily to his old room to change his things.  He felt inclined to ask Tikhon about Katusha; how she was, what she was doing, was she not going to be married?  But Tikhon was so respectful and at the same time so severe, insisted so firmly on pouring the water out of the jug for him, that Nekhludoff could not make up his mind to ask him about Katusha, but only inquired about Tikhon’s grandsons, about the old so-called “brother’s” horse, and about the dog Polkan.  All were alive except Polkan, who had gone mad the summer before.

When he had taken off all his wet things and just begun to dress again, Nekhludoff heard quick, familiar footsteps and a knock at the door.  Nekhludoff knew the steps and also the knock.  No one but she walked and knocked like that.

Having thrown his wet greatcoat over his shoulders, he opened the door.

“Come in.”  It was she, Katusha, the same, only sweeter than before.  The slightly squinting naive black eyes looked up in the same old way.  Now as then, she had on a white apron.  She brought him from his aunts a piece of scented soap, with the wrapper just taken off, and two towels—­one a long Russian embroidered one, the other a bath towel.  The unused soap with the stamped inscription, the towels, and her own self, all were equally clean, fresh, undefiled and pleasant.  The irrepressible smile of joy at the sight of him made the sweet, firm lips pucker up as of old.

“How do you do, Dmitri Ivanovitch?” she uttered with difficulty, her face suffused with a rosy blush.

“Good-morning!  How do you do?” he said, also blushing.  “Alive and well?”

“Yes, the Lord be thanked.  And here is your favorite pink soap and towels from your aunts,” she said, putting the soap on the table and hanging the towels over the back of a chair.

“There is everything here,” said Tikhon, defending the visitor’s independence, and pointing to Nekhludoff’s open dressing case filled with brushes, perfume, fixatoire, a great many bottles with silver lids and all sorts of toilet appliances.

“Thank my aunts, please.  Oh, how glad I am to be here,” said Nekhludoff, his heart filling with light and tenderness as of old.