respectful, and at the same time so rigid; he so strictly insisted on
himself pouring the water from the pitcher over Nekhludoff's hands,
that the latter could not decide to ask him about Katiousha, and only
inquired about his grand-children, about the old stallion, about the
watch-dog Polkan. They were all well, except Polkan, who had gone mad
the previous year.

After he had thrown off his wet clothes, and as he was about to dress
himself, Nekhludoff heard quick steps and a rapping at the door. He
recognized both the steps and the rapping. Only _she_ walked and
rapped thus.

It was Katiousha--the same Katiousha--only more lovely than before.
The naive, smiling, somewhat squinting black eyes still looked up; she
wore a clean white apron, as before. She brought a perfumed piece of
soap, just taken from the wrapper, and two towels--one Russian and the
other Turkish. The freshly unpacked soap, the towels and she herself,
were all equally clean, fresh, pure and pleasant. The lovely, firm,
red lips became creased from unrestrainable happiness at sight of him.

"How do you do, Dmitri Ivanovich?" she said, with difficulty, her face
becoming flushed.

"How art--how are you?" He did not know whether to "thou" her or not,
and became as red in the face as she was.[D] "Are you well?"

"Very well. Your aunt sent you your favorite soap, rose-scented," she
said, placing the soap on the table, and the towels on the arms of the
chair.