"I'll wait for the honor until we are all here."
This allusion to the coming of others recalled her fear to her.
"If they all are only like this one!" was her ardent wish.
Again steps were heard on the porch. The door opened quickly, and
the mother rose. This time she was taken completely aback by the
newcomer in her kitchen--a poorly and lightly dressed girl of
medium height, with the simple face of a peasant woman, and a head
of thick, dark hair. Smiling she said in a low voice:
"Am I late?"
"Why, no!" answered the Little Russian, looking out of the living
room. "Come on foot?"
"Of course! Are you the mother of Pavel Vlasov? Good evening!
My name is Natasha."
"And your other name?" inquired the mother.
"Vasilyevna. And yours?"
"Pelagueya Nilovna."
"So here we are all acquainted."
"Yes," said the mother, breathing more easily, as if relieved, and
looking at the girl with a smile.
The Little Russian helped her off with her cloak, and inquired:
"Is it cold?"
"Out in the open, very! The wind--goodness!"
Her voice was musical and clear, her mouth small and smiling, her
body round and vigorous. Removing her wraps, she rubbed her ruddy
cheeks briskly with her little hands, red with the cold, and walking
lightly and quickly she passed into the room, the heels of her shoes
rapping sharply on the floor.
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