“Thank God for this!” said she and smiled to him a kind, friendly smile. “What makes you so glad?” he asked. “The fact that we don’t resemble our fathers.” Foma glanced at her in astonishment and kept silent. “Tell me frankly,” said she, lowering her voice, “you do not love my father, do you? You don’t like him?” “Not very much,” said Foma, slowly. “And I dislike him very much.” “What for?” “For everything. When you grow wiser, you will know it yourself. Your father was a better man.” “Of course!” said Foma, proudly. After this conversation an attachment sprang up between them almost immediately, and growing stronger from day to day, it soon developed into friendship, though a somewhat odd friendship it was. Though Luba was not older than her god-brother, she nevertheless treated him as an older person would treat a little boy. She spoke to him condescendingly, often jesting at his expense; her talk was always full of words which were unfamiliar to Foma; and she pronounced these words with particular emphasis and with evident satisfaction. She was especially fond of speaking about her brother Taras, whom she had never seen, but of whom she was telling such stories as would make him look like Aunt Anfisa’s brave and noble robbers. Often, when complaining of her father, she said to Foma: “You will also be just such a skinflint.” All this was unpleasant to the youth and stung his vanity. But at times she was straightforward, simple-minded, and particularly kind and friendly to him; then he would unburden his heart before her, and for a long time they would share each other’s thoughts and feelings. Both spoke a great deal and spoke sincerely, but neither one understood the other; it seemed to Foma that whatever Luba had to say was foreign to him and unnecessary to her, and at the same time he clearly saw that his awkward words did not at all interest her, and that she did not care to understand them. No matter how long these conversations lasted, they gave both of them the sensation of discomfort and dissatisfaction. As if an invisible wall of perplexity had suddenly arisen and stood between them. They did not venture to touch this wall, or to tell each other that they felt it was there--they resumed their conversations, dimly conscious that there was something in each of them that might bind and unite them. When Foma arrived at his godfather’s house, he found Luba alone. She came out to meet him, and it was evident that she was either ill or out of humour; her eyes were flashing feverishly and were surrounded with black circles. Feeling cold, she muffled herself in a warm shawl and said with a smile: “It is good that you’ve come! For I was sitting here alone; it is lonesome--I don’t feel like going anywhere. Will you drink tea?” “I will. What is the matter with you, are you ill?” “Go to the dining-room, and I’ll tell them to bring the samovar,” she said, not answering his question.