Trirodov smiled. He sat quietly in his chair and looked at her simply and dispassionately. He did not answer at once. Alkina asked again with her sad and gentle humility: “Perhaps you haven’t the time, nor the desire?” “No, Katya, I shall be glad,” answered Trirodov calmly. “You’ll find it convenient in there,” and he signified with his eyes the little neighbouring room which had no other exit. Alkina flushed lightly and said: “If you will permit me, I’d rather undress here. It would give me joy to have you look at me a long time.” Trirodov helped her to undo the clasps of her skirt. Alkina sat down on a chair, bent over, and began to undo the buttons of her boots. Then, with evident enjoyment at having freed her feet, she walked slowly across the floor towards the door and turned the key in the lock. “As you know, I have but one joy,” she said. She gracefully threw off her clothes and stood before Trirodov with uplifted arms. She was sinuously slender, like a white serpent. Crossing the fingers of her upraised hands, she bent her whole body forward, so that she appeared more sinuously slender than ever, and the curve of her body almost resembled a white ring. Then she relaxed her arms, stood up erect, all tranquil and self-possessed, and said: “I want you to take a good look at me. I haven’t grown old yet, have I? And not altogether faded?” Trirodov surveyed her with admiration and said quietly: “Katya, you are as handsome as always.” Alkina was mistrustful. “It’s true, isn’t it, that clothes have too long cramped my body and injured the skin. How can my body be handsome?” “You are graceful and flexible,” answered Trirodov. “The lines of your body are somewhat elongated but wholly elastic. If any one were to measure your body he would find no error in its proportions.” Alkina scrutinized herself attentively and went on incredulously: “The lines are good--but the colour? I believe you once said that Russians often have unpleasant complexions. When I look on the whiteness of my body I am reminded of plaster of paris, and I begin to weep because I am so ugly.” “No, Katya,” asserted Trirodov. “The whiteness of your body is not like plaster of paris. It is marble, slightly rose-tinged. It is milk poured into a pink crystal vase. It is mountain snow lit up with the last glow of sunset. It is a white reverie suffused with rose desire.” Alkina smiled joyously and flushed lightly as she asked him: “Will you take a few snapshots of me to-day? Otherwise I shall weep, because I am so ugly and so meagre that you do not wish to recall sometimes my face and my body.” “Yes,” answered Trirodov, “I have a few films ready.” Alkina laughed gleefully and said: “Now kiss me.”