nact that of which she was talking. Puff sprang after his
mistress, and, stopping in the middle of the room, did not take
his eyes from her.

"They come in, they bow, they press your hand, father, they sit
down, they listen."

She sat on the chair in the posture of a man, and gave her
delicate features an expression of profound attention. Puff fixed
his eyes on her and began to bark.

"Or in this way." She changed her expression from attention to
gaping. Next she sprang up from the chair. Puff sprang up, too,
and caught the end of her skirt in his little teeth. "They rise,
they bow again, they all say the same things: I have the honor! I
shall have the honor! I wish to have the honor!"

She bowed man-fashion, knocking her heels together, and then
pushing apart her little, slippered feet, and Puff tugged at the
edge of her dress, sprang away, barked repeatedly, and seized her
dress in his teeth again.

"Puffie, don't hinder me! Puffie, go away! Some go out, others
come. Again: 'I have the honor! I wish to have the honor!'
Puffie, go away! They press your hand, father. Oh, I have tired
myself!"

Her breath had become hurried from quick motions and rapid
speaking, a bright flush covered her face, she coughed and
coughed again, she seized her father's arms.

"Do not run away, father! I have much to tell you. I will talk
quickly."

Darvid had been standing in the middle of the room, and following
her quick movements with his eyes, at first with an indulgent,
and then with a more gladsome smile. That child was beaming with
exuberant life, with wit also, which had the power to penetrate
things and people; a most delicate sensitiveness, which made her
an instrument of many strings, and these never ceased quivering.
She reminded him marvellously of Malvina in her youth. When she
began to cough he caught her, and said:

"Do not hurry so; do not speak so much; talk less; sit down
here."

"I have no time, father, to talk slowly--I cannot sit down--for
you will run away that moment. I must hold you and hurry. I want
you to tell me why so many men come to you, and why you go to
their houses. Do you love them? Do they love you? Is it agreeable
and pleasant for you in their company? What do they want? What
comes of these visits, pleasantness or profit? And whose profit,
theirs or yours? or the profit of someone else, perhaps? What is
all this for? Do not these visits remind you of the theatre?
Though I have never been