“Woloda, you, never thought of this.”

“Of what?” he said impatiently.

“Oh, of gloves,” he added with a careless glance at my hand. “That’s nothing. We can ask Grandmamma what she thinks about it,” and without further ado he departed downstairs. I felt a trifle relieved by the coolness with which he had met a situation which seemed to me so grave, and hastened back to the drawing-room, completely forgetful of the unfortunate glove which still adorned my left hand.

Cautiously approaching Grandmamma’s arm-chair, I asked her in a whisper:

“Grandmamma, what are we to do? We have no gloves.”

“What, my love?”