ad a railwayman or a Jew come to
try his luck with the girls; they'd have carried all before them."

And, almost as though it were a personal affront, he declared, on the
spot, that he was bored, sat down on the sofa and immediately fell asleep.
His pretty little face looked rather pale, as it fell back on the sofa
cushion.

"Look how pretty he is," said Grushenka, taking Mitya up to him. "I was
combing his hair just now; his hair's like flax, and so thick...."

And, bending over him tenderly, she kissed his forehead. Kalganov
instantly opened his eyes, looked at her, stood up, and with the most
anxious air inquired where was Maximov?

"So that's who it is you want." Grushenka laughed. "Stay with me a minute.
Mitya, run and find his Maximov."

Maximov, it appeared, could not tear himself away from the girls, only
running away from time to time to pour himself out a glass of liqueur. He
had drunk two cups of chocolate. His face was red, and his nose was
crimson; his eyes were moist and mawkishly sweet. He ran up and announced
that he was going to dance the "sabotiere."

"They taught 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
any one 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, there's a heap of them on the table there. Choose one, my dear
soul!"

"I like one with vanilla ... for old people. He he!"

"No, brother, we've none of that special sort."

"I say," the old man bent down to whisper in Mitya's ear. "That girl
there, little Marya, he he! How would it be if you were to help me make
friends with her?"

"So that's what you're after! No, brother, that won't do!"

"I'd do no harm to any one," Maximov muttered disconsolately.

"Oh, all right, all right. They only come here to dance and sing, you
know, b