“Let us, Lise; I am ready. Though I am not altogether ready in myself. I am sometimes very impatient and at other times I don’t see things. It’s different with you.”
“Ah, I don’t believe it! Alexey Fyodorovitch, how happy I am!”
“I am so glad you say so, Lise.”
“Alexey Fyodorovitch, you are wonderfully good, but you are sometimes sort of formal. … And yet you are not a bit formal really. Go to the door, open it gently, and see whether mamma is listening,” said Lise, in a nervous, hurried whisper.
Alyosha went, opened the door, and reported that no one was listening.
“Come here, Alexey Fyodorovitch,” Lise went on, flushing redder and redder. “Give me your hand—that’s right. I have to make a great confession, I didn’t write to you yesterday in joke, but in earnest,” and she hid her eyes with her hand. It was evident that she was greatly ashamed of the confession.
Suddenly she snatched his hand and impulsively kissed it three times.
“Ah, Lise, what a good thing!” cried Alyosha joyfully. “You know, I was perfectly sure you were in earnest.”
“Sure? Upon my word!” She put aside his hand, but did not leave go of it, blushing hotly, and laughing a little happy laugh. “I kiss his hand and he says, ‘What a good thing!’ ”
But her reproach was undeserved. Alyosha, too, was greatly overcome.
“I should like to please you always, Lise, but I don’t know how to do it,” he muttered, blushing too.