“No.” (At that time photography was not yet talked off. Daguerrotypes had hardly begun to be common.) “What’s her name?” “Her name is Gemma.” “And yours?” “Dimitri.” “And your father’s?” “Pavlovitch.” “Do you know,” Maria Nikolaevna said, still in the same drawling voice, “I like you very much, Dimitri Pavlovitch. You must be an excellent fellow. Give me your hand. Let us be friends.” She pressed his hand tightly in her beautiful, white, strong fingers. Her hand was a little smaller than his hand, but much warmer and smoother and whiter and more full of life. “Only, do you know what strikes me?” “What?” “You won’t be angry? No? You say she is betrothed to you. But was that … was that quite necessary?” Sanin frowned. “I don’t understand you, Maria Nikolaevna.” Maria Nikolaevna gave a soft low laugh, and shaking her head tossed back the hair that was falling on her cheeks. “Decidedly—he’s delightful,” she commented half pensively, half carelessly. “A perfect knight! After that, there’s no believing in the people who maintain that the race of idealists is extinct!” Maria Nikolaevna talked Russian all the time, an astonishingly pure true Moscow Russian, such as the people, not the nobles speak. “You’ve been brought up at home, I expect, in a God-fearing, old orthodox family?” she queried. “You’re from what province?” “Tula.” “Oh! so we’re from the same part. My father … I daresay you know who my father was?” “Yes, I know.” “He was born in Tula…. He was a Tula man. Well … well. Come, let us get to business now.” “That is … how come to business? What do you mean to say by that?” Maria Nikolaevna half-closed her eyes. “Why, what did you come here for?” (when she screwed up her eyes, their expression became very kindly and a little bantering, when she opened them wide, into their clear, almost cold brilliancy, there came something ill-natured … something menacing. Her eyes gained a peculiar beauty from her eyebrows, which were thick, and met in the centre, and had the smoothness of sable fur). “Don’t you want me to buy your estate? You want money for your nuptials? Don’t you?” “Yes.” “And do you want much?” “I should be satisfied with a few thousand francs at first. Your husband knows my estate. You can consult him—I would take a very moderate price.”