"Morning, Pelagea Sergeevna!" he cries in a pleasant, hearty baritone
voice. "What can I do for you?"

"Good-morning!" says Polinka, going up to him. "You see, I'm back
again. . . . Show me some gimp, please."

"Gimp--for what purpose?"

"For a bodice trimming--to trim a whole dress, in fact."

"Certainly."

Nickolay Timofeitch lays several kinds of gimp before Polinka; she
looks at the trimmings languidly and begins bargaining over them.

"Oh, come, a rouble's not dear," says the shopman persuasively,
with a condescending smile. "It's a French trimming, pure silk. . . .
We have a commoner sort, if you like, heavier. That's forty-five
kopecks a yard; of course, it's nothing like the same quality."

"I want a bead corselet, too, with gimp buttons," says Polinka,
bending over the gimp and sighing for some reason. "And have you
any bead motifs to match?"

"Yes."

Polinka bends still lower over the counter and asks softly:

"And why did you leave us so early on Thursday, Nikolay Timofeitch?"

"Hm! It's queer you noticed it," says the shopman, with a smirk.
"You were so taken up with that fine student that . . . it's queer
you noticed it!"

Polinka flushes crimson and remains mute. With a nervous quiver in
his fingers the shopman closes the boxes, and for no sort of object
piles them one on the top of another. A moment of silence follows.

"I want some bead lace, too," says Polinka, lifting her eyes guiltily
to the shopman.

"What sort? Black or coloured? Bead lace on tulle is the most
fashionable trimming."

"And how much is it?"

"The black's from eighty kopecks and the coloured from two and a
half roubles. I shall never come and see you again," Nikolay
Timofeitch adds in an undertone.

"Why?"

"Why? It's very simple. You must understand that yourself. Why
should I distress myself? It's a queer business! Do you suppose
it's a pleasure to me to see that student carrying on with you? I
see it all and I understand. Ever since autumn he's been hanging
about you and you go for a walk with him almost every day; and when
he is with you, you gaze at him as though he were an angel. You are
in love with him; there's no one to beat him in your eyes. Well,
all right, then, it's no good talking."

Polinka remains dumb and moves her finger on the counter in
embarrassment.

"I see it all," the shopman goes on. "What inducement have I to
come and see you? I've got some pride. It's not every one likes to
pl