Sonetchka gave me her hand, and we darted off to the salon, The wine, added to Sonetchka’s presence and gaiety, had at once made me forget all about the unfortunate end of the mazurka.  I kept executing the most splendid feats with my legs—­now imitating a horse as he throws out his hoofs in the trot, now stamping like a sheep infuriated at a dog, and all the while laughing regardless of appearances.

Sonetchka also laughed unceasingly, whether we were whirling round in a circle or whether we stood still to watch an old lady whose painful movements with her feet showed the difficulty she had in walking.  Finally Sonetchka nearly died of merriment when I jumped half-way to the ceiling in proof of my skill.

As I passed a mirror in Grandmamma’s boudoir and glanced at myself I could see that my face was all in a perspiration and my hair dishevelled—­the top-knot, in particular, being more erect than ever.  Yet my general appearance looked so happy, healthy, and good-tempered that I felt wholly pleased with myself.

“If I were always as I am now,” I thought, “I might yet be able to please people with my looks.”  Yet as soon as I glanced at my partner’s face again, and saw there not only the expression of happiness, health, and good temper which had just pleased me in my own, but also a fresh and enchanting beauty besides, I felt dissatisfied with myself again.  I understood how silly of me it was to hope to attract the attention of such a wonderful being as Sonetchka.  I could not hope for reciprocity—­could not even think of it, yet my heart was overflowing with happiness.  I could not imagine that the feeling of love which was filling my soul so pleasantly could require any happiness still greater, or wish for more than that that happiness should never cease.  I felt perfectly contented.  My heart beat like that of a dove, with the blood constantly flowing back to it, and I almost wept for joy.

As we passed through the hall and peered into a little dark store-room beneath the staircase I thought:  “What bliss it would be if I could pass the rest of my life with her in that dark corner, and never let anybody know that we were there!”

“It has been a delightful evening, hasn’t it?” I asked her in a low, tremulous voice.  Then I quickened my steps—­as much out of fear of what I had said as out of fear of what I had meant to imply.

“Yes, very!” she answered, and turned her face to look at me with an expression so kind that I ceased to be afraid.  I went on: 

“Particularly since supper.  Yet if you could only know how I regret” (I had nearly said) “how miserable I am at your going, and to think that we shall see each other no more!”

“But why shouldn’t we?” she asked, looking gravely at the corner of her pocket-handkerchief, and gliding her fingers over a latticed screen which we were passing.  “Every Tuesday and Friday I go with Mamma to the Iverskoi Prospect.  I suppose you go for walks too sometimes?”