“Oh dear no! Why—”
“And—and you won’t laugh at him? That’s the chief thing.”
“Oh no! Never.”
“How foolish I am to speak of such things to a man like you,” said Vera, blushing. “Though you do look tired,” she added, half turning away, “your eyes are so splendid at this moment—so full of happiness.”
“Really?” asked the prince, gleefully, and he laughed in delight.
But Vera, simple-minded little girl that she was (just like a boy, in fact), here became dreadfully confused, of a sudden, and ran hastily out of the room, laughing and blushing.
“What a dear little thing she is,” thought the prince, and immediately forgot all about her.
He walked to the far end of the verandah, where the sofa stood, with a table in front of it. Here he sat down and covered his face with his hands, and so remained for ten minutes. Suddenly he put his hand in his coat-pocket and hurriedly produced three letters.
But the door opened again, and out came Colia.
The prince actually felt glad that he had been interrupted—and might return the letters to his pocket. He was glad of the respite.
“Well,” said Colia, plunging in medias res , as he always did, “here’s a go! What do you think of Hippolyte now? Don’t respect him any longer, eh?”
“Why not? But look here, Colia, I’m tired; besides, the subject is too melancholy to begin upon again. How is he, though?”