But in a few moments an impudent young person fell on himand gave him a pummelling. He did not dare even to cry. Thegoverness came and told him to leave off interfering with theother children’s games， and he crept away to the same roomthe little girl and I were in. She let him sit down beside her，and the two set themselves busily dressing the expensive doll.
Almost half an hour passed， and I was nearly dozingoff， as I sat there in the conservatory half listening to thechatter of the red-haired boy and the dowered beauty， whenJulian Mastakovich entered suddenly. He had slipped outof the drawing-room under cover of a noisy scene amongthe children. From my secluded corner it had not escapedmy notice that a few moments before he had been eagerlyconversing with the rich girl’s father， to whom he had only justbeen introduced.
He stood still for a while reflecting and mumbling to himself，as if counting something on his fingers.
“Three hundred—three hundred—eleven—twelve—thirteen—sixteen—in five years！ Let’s say four per cent—fivetimes twelve—sixty， and on these sixty—. Let us assume thatin five years it will amount to—well， four hundred. Hm—hm！
But the shrewd old fox isn’t likely to be satisfied with four percent. He gets eight or even ten， perhaps. Let’s suppose fivehundred， five hundred thousand， at least， that’s sure. Anythingabove that for pocket money—hm—”
He blew his nose and was about to leave the room when hespied the girl and stood still. I， behind the plants， escaped hisnotice. He seemed to me to be quivering with excitement. Itmust have been his calculations that upset him so. He rubbedhis hands and danced from place to place， and kept gettingmore and more excited. Finally， however， he conquered hisemotions and came to a standstill. He cast a determined lookat the future bride and wanted to move toward her， but glancedabout first. Then， as if with a guilty conscience， he steppedover to the child on tip-toe， smiling， and bent down and kissedher head.
His coming was so unexpected that she uttered a shriek ofalarm.
“What are you doing here， dear child？” he whispered，looking around and pinching her cheek.
“We’re playing.”
“What， with him？” said Julian Mastakovich with a lookaskance at the governess’s child. “You should go into thedrawing-room， my lad，” he said to him.
The boy remained silent and looked up at the man withwide-open eyes. Julian Mastakovich glanced round againcautiously and bent down over the girl.
“What have you got， a doll， my dear？”
“Yes， sir.” The child quailed a little， and her brow wrinkled.
“A doll？ And do you know， my dear， what dolls are madeof？”
“No， sir，” she said weakly， and lowered her head.
“Out of rags， my dear. You， boy， you go back to the drawingroom，to the children，” said Julian Mastakovich looking at theboy sternly.
The two children frowned. They caught hold of each otherand would not part.
“And do you know why they gave you the doll？” askedJulian Mastakovich， dropping his voice lower and lower.
“No.”
“Because you were a good， very good little girl the wholeweek.”
Saying which， Julian Mastakovich was seized with aparoxysm of agitation. He looked round and said in a fainttone， almost inaudible with excitement and impatience：
“If I come to visit your parents will you love me， my dear？”
He tried to kiss the sweet little creature， but the red-hairedboy saw that she was on the verge of tears， and he caught herhand and sobbed out loud in sympathy. That enraged the man.
“Go away！ Go away！ Go back to the other room， to yourplaymates.”
“I don’t want him to. I don’t want him to！ You go away！”
cried the girl. “Let him alone！ Let him alone！” She was almostweeping.
There was a sound of footsteps in the doorway. JulianMastakovich started and straightened up his respectable body.
The red-haired boy was even more alarmed. He let go the handof girl hand， sidled along the wall， and escaped through thedrawing-room into the dining-room.
Not to attract attention， Julian Mastakovich also made for thedining-room. He was red as a lobster. The sight of himself in amirror seemed to embarrass him. Presumably he was annoyedat his own ardour and impatience. Without due respect to hisimportance and dignity， his calculations had lured and prickedhim to the greedy eagerness of a boy， who makes straight forhis object—though this was not as yet an object； it only wouldbe so in five years’ time. I followed the worthy man into thedining-room， where I witnessed a remarkable play.
Julian Mastakovich， all flushed with vexation， venom in hislook， began to threaten the red-haired boy. The red-haired boyretreated farther and farther until there was no place left for himto retreat to， and he did not know where to turn in his fright.
“Get out of here！ What are you doing here？ Get out， I say，you good-for-nothing！ Stealing fruit， are you？ Oh， so， stealingfruit！ Get out， you freckle face， go to your likes！”
