"How do you know what he has in his heart?" replies Sonia, with a frown, but with only half-repressed joy in her voice. "And now, tell me, have you nothing for me to eat? I am fearfully hungry."
"I was prepared for that; come in our cosey corner."
The cosey corner is a little three-cornered room off of the drawing-room. A piano, a chair almost breaking under its load of music, a single sofa, a large arm-chair, and a little Japanese table, all grouped about a Parisian fire-place, form the furniture.
On the miniature table stands a little repast prepared--a dish of strawberries, sandwiches, little cakes, and, amongst all these delicacies, a sensible silver tea-pot.
"Ah, how nice you are!" says Sonia, pleased. "A mother could not care for me better; I cannot bear to think how horrible it was before I was with you! I live as if in Paradise with you!"
"Did poor little Mascha become at all gayer in the course of the evening?" asked Nita, as she poured tea for her friend.
"No; I am sorry for the child. She looks badly, pale, her face so lengthened and aged. I do not understand how she can take the affair so to heart. She scarcely knew Bärenburg. His wedding must be soon."
"Nikolai is very anxious about her," goes on Sonia. "It is touching to see her with him. At every funny part of the piece his eyes rested on her face to see if she would laugh, but she never did."
Nita hands her friend a letter. "From Berlin; it is your father's writing," says she.
Sonia opens it. "Yes, from papa. He is coming here in a day or two; he may be here tomorrow."
"And then you will be untrue to me," says Nita, smilingly. "Have you finished your supper? Do you not wish to retire?"
"No, no; I am not sleepy, and it is so nice to talk," replies Sonia. "Come out on the terrace for a little."
Silently Nita follows. The heavens are cloudless. It is bright moonlight.
"Only think whom I saw in the theatre this evening," begins Sonia. "As you do not know the person, my communication will, alas! lack the impressive effect."
"The most singular woman--a certain Njikitjin."
"Marie Petrovna Njikitjin?" says Nita, who until then has been dreamily looking over the terrace railing. "Is she in Paris?"
"How so?" asks Nita shortly, quite cuttingly.