Poor Anna Fyódorovna’s neck and ears grew red with confusion. She cast down her eyes and said nothing.
“He kisses the woman in public,” said the Count, in a low voice, leaning towards her ear. “Allow me to kiss at least your hand,” he added in a whisper, after a prolonged silence, taking pity on his partner’s confusion.
“Ah, only not now!” uttered Anna Fyódorovna, with a deep sigh.
“When then? I am leaving early tomorrow, and you owe it me.”
“Well then, it’s impossible,” said Anna Fyódorovna, with a smile.
“Only allow me an opportunity of meeting you tonight to kiss your hand. I shall not fail to find it.”
“How can you find it?”
“That is not your business. In order to see you everything is possible. … It’s agreed?”
“Agreed.”
The ecossaise ended. After that they danced a mazurka, and the Count was quite wonderful: catching handkerchiefs, kneeling on one knee, striking his spurs together in a quite special Warsaw manner, so that all the old people left their game of “boston” and flocked into the ballroom to see, and the cavalryman, the best mazurka dancer, confessed himself eclipsed. Then they had supper, after which they danced the “Grandfather,” and the ball began to break up. The Count never took his eyes off the widow. It was not pretence when he said he was ready to jump through a hole in the ice for her sake. Whether it was whim, or love, or obstinacy, that evening all his mental powers were concentrated in one desire—to meet and love her. As soon as he noticed that Anna Fyódorovna was taking leave of the hostess, he ran out into the hall, and