presently as she threw us another gracious smile.

Thereupon we rose and stood looking at the Princess, without in the
least knowing what we ought to do to show that we were being introduced.

"Kiss the Princess's hand," said Papa.

"Well, I hope you will love your old aunt," she said to Woloda, kissing
his hair, "even though we are not near relatives. But I value friendship
far more than I do degrees of relationship," she added to Grandmamma,
who nevertheless, remained hostile, and replied:

"Eh, my dear? Is that what they think of relationships nowadays?"

"Here is my man of the world," put in Papa, indicating Woloda; "and here
is my poet," he added as I kissed the small, dry hand of the Princess,
with a vivid picture in my mind of that same hand holding a rod and
applying it vigorously.

"WHICH one is the poet?" asked the Princess.

"This little one," replied Papa, smiling; "the one with the tuft of hair
on his top-knot."

"Why need he bother about my tuft?" I thought to myself as I retired
into a corner. "Is there nothing else for him to talk about?"

I had strange ideas on manly beauty. I considered Karl Ivanitch one of
the handsomest men in the world, and myself so ugly that I had no need
to deceive myself on that point. Therefore any remark on the subject of