A profound stillness lasted for a few seconds, and then
the door was brusquely opened by a short, black-eyed woman in a red
blouse, with a great lot of nearly white hair, done up negligently in
an untidy and unpicturesque manner. Her thin, jetty eyebrows were drawn
together. I learned afterwards with interest that she was the famous--or
the notorious--Sophia Antonovna, but I was struck then by the quaint
Mephistophelian character of her inquiring glance, because it was so
curiously evil-less, so--I may say--un-devilish. It got softened still
more as she looked up at Miss Haldin, who stated, in her rich, even
voice, her wish to see Peter Ivanovitch for a moment.
"I am Miss Haldin," she added.
At this, with her brow completely smoothed out now, but without a word
in answer, the woman in the red blouse walked away to a sofa and sat
down, leaving the door wide open.
And from the sofa, her hands lying on her lap, she watched us enter,
with her black, glittering eyes.
Miss Haldin advanced into the middle of the room; I, faithful to my part
of mere attendant, remained by the door after closing it behind me. The
room, quite a large one, but with a low ceiling, was scantily furnished,
and an electric bulb with a porcelain shade pulled low down over a big
table (with a very large map spread on it) left its distant parts in a
dim, artificial twilight.
Pages:
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416