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But she evidently understood with whom she had to deal, and she
suddenly asked him in a bold whisper:
"Why don't you treat me to something?"
"Here!" Foma gave a start. "Indeed, how queer I am? Well, then,
come up to the table."
He bustled about in the dark, pushed the table, took up one bottle,
then another, and again returned them to their place, laughing
guiltily
and confusedly as he did so. She came up close to him and stood by his
side, and, smiling, looked at his face and at his trembling hands.
"Are you bashful?" she suddenly whispered.
He felt her breath on his cheek and replied just as softly:
"Yes."
Then she placed her hands on his shoulders and quietly drew him
to her breast, saying in a soothing whisper:
"Never mind, don't be bashful, my young, handsome darling. How I
pity you!"
And he felt like crying because of her whisper, his heart was
melting in sweet fatigue; pressing his head close to her breast,
he clasped her with his hands, mumbling to her some inarticulate
words, which were unknown to himself.


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