“ ‘I won’t give you up,’ I said.
“ ‘Give me my fan, anyhow,’ she answered.
“ ‘I am so sorry to part with it,’ I said, handing her a cheap white fan.
“ ‘Well, here’s something to console you,’ she said, plucking a feather out of the fan, and giving it to me.
“I took the feather, and could only express my rapture and gratitude with my eyes. I was not only pleased and gay, I was happy, delighted; I was good, I was not myself but some being not of this earth, knowing nothing of evil. I hid the feather in my glove, and stood there unable to tear myself away from her.
“ ‘Look, they are urging father to dance,’ she said to me, pointing to the tall, stately figure of her father, a colonel with silver epaulettes, who was standing in the doorway with some ladies.
“ ‘Varinka, come here!’ exclaimed our hostess, the lady with the diamond ferronnière and with shoulders like Elizabeth, in a loud voice.
“ ‘Varinka went to the door, and I followed her.
“ ‘Persuade your father to dance the mazurka with you, ma chère .—Do, please, Peter Valdislavovich,’ she said, turning to the colonel.
“Varinka’s father was a very handsome, well-preserved old man. He had a good colour, moustaches curled in the style of Nicolas I , and white whiskers which met the moustaches. His hair was combed on to his forehead, and a bright smile, like his daughter’s, was on his lips and in his eyes. He was splendidly set up, with a broad military chest, on which he wore some decorations, and he had powerful shoulders and long slim legs. He was that ultra-military type produced by the discipline of Emperor Nicolas I .