In our veranda the polished samovar shone and hissed on the white tablecloth; there were cracknels and biscuits and cream on the table. Kátya was busy washing the cups with her plump hands. I was too hungry after bathing to wait for tea, and was eating bread with thick fresh cream. I was wearing a gingham blouse with loose sleeves, and my hair, still wet, was covered with a kerchief. Kátya saw him first, even before he came in.
“You, Sergéy Mikháylych!” she cried. “Why, we were just talking about you.”
I got up, meaning to go and change my dress, but he caught me just by the door.
“Why stand on such ceremony in the country?” he said, looking with a smile at the kerchief on my head. “You don’t mind the presence of your butler, and I am really the same to you as Grigóri is.” But I felt just then that he was looking at me in a way quite unlike Grigóri’s way, and I was uncomfortable.
“I shall come back at once,” I said, as I left them.
“But what is wrong?” he called out after me; “it’s just the dress of a young peasant woman.”
“How strangely he looked at me!” I said to myself as I was quickly changing upstairs. “Well, I’m glad he has come; things will be more lively.” After a look in the glass I ran gaily downstairs and into the veranda; I was out of breath and did not disguise my haste. He was sitting at the table, talking to Kátya about our affairs. He glanced at me and smiled; then he went on talking. From what he said it appeared that our affairs were in capital shape: it was now possible for us, after spending the summer in the country, to go either to Petersburg for Sónya’s education, or abroad.