Raisa Alexandrovna, who had just opened the ball, and was, therefore, the object of the other ladies' envy, was now dancing with the slender, ceremonious Olisár. He held one of her hands as if it had been fixed to his left side. She supported her chin in a languishing way against her other hand, which rested on his right shoulder. She kept her head far thrown back in an affected and unnatural attitude. When the dance was over she sat purposely near Romashov, who was leaning against the doorpost of the ladies' dressing-room. She fanned herself violently, and looking up to Olisár, who was leaning over her, lisped in a soft _dolcissimo_: "Tell me, Count, tell me, please, why do I always feel so hot? Do tell me." Olisár made a slight bow, clicked his spurs, stroked his moustache several times. "Dear lady, that is a question which I don't think even Martin Sadek could answer." When Olisár cast a scrutinizing glance at the fair Raisa's _décolleté_ bosom, pitiable and bare as the desert itself, she began at once to breathe quickly and deeply. "Ah, I have always an abnormally high temperature," Raisa Alexandrovna went on to say with a significant expression, insinuating by her smile that her words had a double meaning. "I suffer, too, from an unusually fiery temperament." Olisár gave vent to a short, soft chuckle. Romashov stood looking sideways at Raisa, thinking with disgust, "Oh, how loathsome she is." And at the thought that he had once enjoyed her favours, he experienced the sensation as if he had not changed his linen for months. "Well, well, Count, don't laugh. Perhaps you do not know that my mother was a Greek?" "And how horribly she speaks, too," thought Romashov. "Curious that I never noticed this before. It sounds as if she had a chronic cold or a polypus in her nose--'by buther was a Greek.'" Now Raisa turned to Romashov and threw him a challenging glance. Romashov mentally said, "His face became impassive like a mask." "How do you do, Yuri Alexievich? Why don't you come and speak to me?" Romashov went up to her. With a venomous glance from her small, sharp eyes she pressed his hand. The pupils of her eyes stood motionless. "At your desire I have kept the third quadrille for you. I hope you have not forgotten that." Romashov bowed. "You are very polite! At least you might say _Enchanté, madame!_" ("Edchadté, badabe" was what Romashov heard.) "Isn't he a blockhead, Count?" "Of course, I remember," mumbled Romashov insincerely. "I thank you for the great honour."