me all those well-bred, aristocratic dances when I was little. …”
“Go, go with him, Mitya, and I’ll watch from here how he dances,” said Grushenka.
“No, no, I’m coming to look on, too,” exclaimed Kalganov, brushing aside in the most naive way Grushenka’s offer to sit with him.
They all went to look on.
Maximov danced his dance. But it roused no great admiration in anyone but Mitya. It consisted of nothing but skipping and hopping, kicking up the feet, and at every skip Maximov slapped the upturned sole of his foot.
Kalganov did not like it at all, but Mitya kissed the dancer.
“Thanks. You’re tired perhaps? What are you looking for here? Would you like some sweets? A cigar, perhaps?”
“A cigarette.”
“Don’t you want a drink?”
“I’ll just have a liqueur. … Have you any chocolates?”
“Yes,