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Mr. Perekatov’s daughter, Mashenka, was in face like her father. Nenila Makarievna had taken the greatest pains with her education. She spoke French well, and played the piano fairly. She was of medium height, rather plump and white; her rather full face was lighted up by a kindly and merry smile; her flaxen, not over-abundant hair, her hazel eyes, her pleasant voice–everything about her was gently pleasing, and that was all. On the other hand the absence of all affectation and conventionality, an amount of culture exceptional in a country girl, the freedom of her expressions, the quiet simplicity of her words and looks could not but be striking in her. She had developed at her own free will; Nenila Makarievna did not keep her in restraint.

One morning at twelve o’clock the whole family of the Perekatovs were in the drawing-room. The husband in a round green coat, a high check cravat, and pea-green trousers with straps, was standing at the window, very busily engaged in catching flies. The daughter was sitting at her embroidery frame; her small dimpled little hand rose and fell slowly and gracefully over the canvas. Nenila Makarievna was sitting on the sofa, gazing in silence at the floor.

‘Did you send an invitation to the regiment at Kirilovo, Sergei Sergeitch?’ she asked her husband.

‘For this evening? To be sure I did, ma chere.’ (He was under the strictest orders not to call her ‘little mother.’) ‘To be sure!’

‘There are positively no gentlemen,’ pursued Nenila Makarievna. ‘Nobody for the girls to dance with.’

Her husband sighed, as though crushed by the absence of partners.

‘Mamma,’ Masha began all at once, ‘is Monsieur Lutchkov asked?’

‘What Lutchkov?’

‘He’s an officer too. They say he’s a very interesting person.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Oh, he’s not good-looking and he’s not young, but every one’s afraid of him. He’s a dreadful duellist.’ (Mamma frowned a little.) ‘I should so like to see him.’

Sergei Sergeitch interrupted his daughter.

‘What is there to see in him, my darling? Do you suppose he must look like Lord Byron?’ (At that time we were only just beginning to talk about Lord Byron.) ‘Nonsense! Why, I declare, my dear, there was a time when I had a terrible character as a fighting man.’

Masha looked wonderingly at her parent, laughed, then jumped up and kissed him on the cheek. His wife smiled a little, too… but Sergei Sergeitch had spoken the truth.

‘I don’t know if that gentleman is coming,’ observed Nenila Makarievna. ‘Possibly he may come too.’

The daughter sighed.

‘Mind you don’t go and fall in love with him,’ remarked Sergei Sergeitch. ‘I know you girls are all like that nowadays–so–what shall I say?–romantic…’

‘No,’ Masha responded simply.

Nenila Makarievna looked coldly at her husband. Sergei Sergeitch played with his watch-chain in some embarrassment, then took his wide-brimmed, English hat from the table, and set off to see after things on the estate.

His dog timidly and meekly followed him. As an intelligent animal, she was well aware that her master was not a person of very great authority in the house, and behaved herself accordingly with modesty and circumspection.

Nenila Makarievna went up to her daughter, gently raised her head, and looked affectionately into her eyes. ‘Will you tell me when you fall in love?’ she asked.

Masha kissed her mother’s hand, smiling, and nodded her head several times in the affirmative.

‘Mind you do,’ observed Nenila Makarievna, stroking her cheek, and she went out after her husband. Masha leaned back in her chair, dropped her head on her bosom, interlaced her fingers, and looked long out of window, screwing up her eyes… A slight flush passed over her fresh cheeks; with a sigh she drew herself up, was setting to work again, but dropped her needle, leaned her face on her hand, and biting the tips of her nails, fell to dreaming… then glanced at her own shoulder, at her outstretched hand, got up, went to the window, laughed, put on her hat and went out into the garden.