"You don't remember me, of course," she began in a high masculine
tenor, visibly agitated. "I . . . I have had the pleasure of meeting
you at the Hrutskys. . . . I am Mme. Murashkin. . . ."

"A. . . a . . . a . . . h'm . . . Sit down! What can I do for you?"

"You . . . you see . . . I . . . I . . ." the lady went on, sitting
down and becoming still more agitated. "You don't remember me. . . .
I'm Mme. Murashkin. . . . You see I'm a great admirer of your
talent and always read your articles with great enjoyment. . . .
Don't imagine I'm flattering you--God forbid!--I'm only giving
honour where honour is due. . . . I am always reading you . . .
always! To some extent I am myself not a stranger to literature--
that is, of course . . . I will not venture to call myself an
authoress, but . . . still I have added my little quota . . . I
have published at different times three stories for children. . . .
You have not read them, of course. . . . I have translated a good
deal and . . . and my late brother used to write for _The Cause_."

"To be sure . . . er--er--er----What can I do for you?"

"You see . . . (the lady cast down her eyes and turned redder) I
know your talents . . . your views, Pavel Vassilyevitch, and I have
been longing to learn your opinion, or more exactly . . . to ask
your advice. I must tell you I have perpetrated a play, my first-born
--_pardon pour l'expression!_--and before sending it to the
Censor I should like above all things to have your opinion on it."

Nervously, with the flutter of a captured bird, the lady fumbled
in her skirt and drew out a fat manuscript.