Princess Marya, full of laughter and glee. Princess Marya felt his eyes upon her with troubled and joyful agitation. Her favourite sonata bore her away to a world of soul-felt poetry, and the feeling of his eyes upon her added still more poetry to that world. The look in Anatole’s eyes, though they were indeed fixed upon her, had reference not to her, but to the movements of Mademoiselle’s little foot, which he was at that very time touching with his own under the piano. Mademoiselle Bourienne too was gazing at Princess Marya, and in her fine eyes, too, there was an expression of frightened joy and hope that was new to the princess.

“How she loves me!” thought Princess Marya. “How happy I am now and how happy I may be with such a friend and such a husband! Can he possibly be my husband?” she thought, not daring to glance at his face, but still feeling his eyes fastened upon her.

When the party broke up after supper, Anatole kissed Princess Marya’s hand. She was herself at a loss to know how she had the hardihood, but she looked straight with her short-sighted eyes at the handsome face as it came close to her. After the princess, he bent over the hand of Mademoiselle Bourienne (it was a breach of etiquette, but he did everything with the same ease and simplicity) and Mademoiselle Bourienne crimsoned and glanced in dismay at the princess.

“Quelle délicatesse!” thought Princess Marya. “Can Amélie” (Mademoiselle’s name) “suppose I could be jealous of her, and fail to appreciate her tenderness and devotion to me?” She went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne and kissed her warmly. Anatole went to the little princess.

“No, no, no! When your father writes me word that you are behaving well, I will give you my hand to kiss.” And shaking her little finger at him, she went smiling out of the room.