She sat down on his bed—a bench only covered by a bit of carpet—and began to take off her boots. The little cell seemed to her charming. The narrow little room, some seven feet by nine, was as clean as glass. There was nothing in it but the bench on which she was sitting, the bookshelf above it, and a lectern in the corner. A sheepskin coat and a cassock hung on nails by the door. Above the lectern was the little lamp and an icon of Christ in His crown of thorns. The room smelt strangely of perspiration and of earth. It all pleased her—even that smell. Her wet feet, especially one of them, were uncomfortable, and she quickly began to take off her boots and stockings without ceasing to smile, pleased not so much at having achieved her object as because she perceived that she had abashed that charming, strange, striking, and attractive man. “He did not respond, but what of that?” she said to herself.
“Father Sergius! Father Sergius! Or how does one call you?”
“What do you want?” replied a quiet voice.
“Please forgive me for disturbing your solitude, but really I could not help it. I should simply have fallen ill. And I don’t know that I shan’t now. I am all wet and my feet are like ice.”
“Pardon me,” replied the quiet voice. “I cannot be of any assistance to you.”
“I would not have disturbed you if I could have helped it. I am only here till daybreak.”
He did not reply and she heard him muttering something, probably his prayers.
“You will not be coming in here?” she asked, smiling. “For I must undress to dry myself.”
He did not reply, but continued to read his prayers.