“Where they played last night. Then I found this bench and sat down, and thought and thought—and at last I fell fast asleep.”
“Oh, is that it? That makes a difference, perhaps. What did you go to the bandstand for?”
“I don’t know; I—”
“Very well—afterwards. You are always interrupting me. What woman was it you were dreaming about?”
“It was—about—you saw her—”
“Quite so; I understand. I understand quite well. You are very—Well, how did she appear to you? What did she look like? No, I don’t want to know anything about her,” said Aglaya, angrily; “don’t interrupt me—”
She paused a moment as though getting breath, or trying to master her feeling of annoyance.
“Look here; this is what I called you here for. I wish to make you a—to ask you to be my friend. What do you stare at me like that for?” she added, almost angrily.
The prince certainly had darted a rather piercing look at her, and now observed that she had begun to blush violently. At such moments, the more Aglaya blushed, the angrier she grew with herself; and this was clearly expressed in her eyes, which flashed like fire. As a rule, she vented her wrath on her unfortunate companion, be it who it might. She was very conscious of her own shyness, and was not nearly so talkative as her sisters for this reason—in fact, at times she was much too quiet. When, therefore, she was bound to talk, especially at such delicate moments as this, she invariably did so with an air of haughty defiance. She always knew beforehand when she was going to blush, long before the blush came.