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I held out my hand to Musa Pavlovna–she did not give me hers–she did not notice my movement; she sat down on the chair Tarhov placed for her, but did not take off her hat and cape.

She was, obviously, ill at ease; my presence embarrassed her. She drew deep breaths, at irregular intervals, as though she were gasping for air.

‘I’ve only come to you for one minute, Vladimir Nikolaitch,’ she began–her voice was very soft and deep; from her crimson, almost childish lips, it seemed rather strange;–‘but our madame would not let me out for more than half an hour. You weren’t well the day before yesterday … and so, I thought …’

She stammered and hung her head. Under the shade of her thick, low brows her dark eyes darted–to and fro–elusively. There are dark, swift, flashing beetles that flit so in the heat of summer among the blades of dry grass.

‘How good you are, Musa, Musotchka!’ cried Tarhov. ‘But you must stay, you must stay a little…. We’ll have the samovar in directly.’

‘Oh no, Vladimir Nikolaevitch! it’s impossible! I must go away this minute.’

‘You must rest a little, anyway. You’re out of breath…. You’re tired.’

‘I’m not tired. It’s … not that … only … give me another book; I’ve finished this one.’ She took out of her pocket a tattered grey volume of a Moscow edition.

‘Of course, of course. Well, did you like it? Roslavlev,’ added Tarhov, addressing me.

‘Yes. Only I think Yury Miloslavsky is much better. Our madame is very strict about books. She says they hinder our working. For, to her thinking …’

‘But, I say, Yury Miloslavsky‘s not equal to Pushkin’s Gipsies? Eh? Musa Pavlovna?’ Tarhov broke in with a smile.

‘No, indeed! The Gipsies …’ she murmured slowly. ‘Oh yes, another thing, Vladimir Nikolaitch; don’t come to-morrow … you know where.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s impossible.’

‘But why?’

The girl shrugged her shoulders, and all at once, as though she had received a sudden shove, got up from her chair.

‘Why, Musa, Musotchka,’ Tarhov expostulated plaintively. ‘Stay a little!’

‘No, no, I can’t.’ She went quickly to the door, took hold of the handle….

‘Well, at least, take the book!’

‘Another time.’

Tarhov rushed towards the girl, but at that instant she darted out of the room. He almost knocked his nose against the door. ‘What a girl! She’s a regular little viper!’ he declared with some vexation, and then sank into thought.

I stayed at Tarhov’s. I wanted to find out what was the meaning of it all. Tarhov was not disposed to be reserved. He told me that the girl was a milliner; that he had seen her for the first time three weeks before in a fashionable shop, where he had gone on a commission for his sister, who lived in the provinces, to buy a hat; that he had fallen in love with her at first sight, and that next day he had succeeded in speaking to her in the street; that she had herself, it seemed, taken rather a fancy to him.

‘Only, please, don’t you suppose,’ he added with warmth,–‘don’t you imagine any harm of her. So far, at any rate, there’s been nothing of that sort between us.

‘Harm!’ I caught him up; ‘I’ve no doubt of that; and I’ve no doubt either that you sincerely deplore the fact, my dear fellow! Have patience–everything will come right’

‘I hope so,’ Tarhov muttered through his teeth, though with a laugh. ‘But really, my boy, that girl … I tell you–it’s a new type, you know. You hadn’t time to get a good look at her. She’s a shy thing!–oo! such a shy thing! and what a will of her own! But that very shyness is what I like in her. It’s a sign of independence! I’m simply over head and ears, my boy!’

Tarhov fell to talking of his ‘charmer,’ and even read me the beginning of a poem entitled: ‘My Muse.’ His emotional outpourings were not quite to my taste. I felt secretly jealous of him. I soon left him.