“You are the only person who⁠ ⁠… cares about me, and I’ve no one to talk to but you.”

“These are not reed or steel, but real whalebone.⁠ ⁠… What is there for us to talk about? It’s no use talking.⁠ ⁠… You are going for a walk with him today, I suppose?”

“Yes; I⁠ ⁠… I am.”

“Then what’s the use of talking? Talk won’t help.⁠ ⁠… You are in love, aren’t you?”

“Yes⁠ ⁠…” Polinka whispers hesitatingly, and big tears gush from her eyes.

“What is there to say?” mutters Nikolay Timofeitch, shrugging his shoulders nervously and turning pale. “There’s no need of talk.⁠ ⁠… Wipe your eyes, that’s all. I⁠ ⁠… I ask for nothing.”

At that moment a tall, lanky shopman comes up to the pyramid of boxes, and says to his customer:

“Let me show you some good elastic garters that do not impede the circulation, certified by medical authority⁠ ⁠…”

Nikolay Timofeitch screens Polinka, and, trying to conceal her emotion and his own, wrinkles his face into a smile and says aloud:

“There are two kinds of lace, madam: cotton and silk! Oriental, English, Valenciennes, crochet, torchon, are cotton. And rococo, soutache, Cambray, are silk.⁠ ⁠… For God’s sake, wipe your eyes! They’re coming this way!”

And seeing that her tears are still gushing he goes on louder than ever:

“Spanish, Rococo, soutache, Cambray⁠ ⁠… stockings, thread, cotton, silk⁠ ⁠…”