pathy drawing her toward Mademoiselle Varenka; and, when their eyes met, she imagined that it pleased her also.
This Mademoiselle Varenka was not only no longer in her first youth, but she seemed like a creature without any youth; her age might be guessed as either nineteen or thirty. If one analyzed her features, she was rather good-looking in spite of the sickly pallor of her face. If her head had not been rather large, and her figure too slight, she would have been considered handsome; but she was not one to please men; she made one think of a beautiful flower, which, though still preserving its petals, was faded and without perfume. There was one other reason why she could not be attractive to men, and that was the fact that she lacked exactly what Kitty had in excess—the repressed fire of life and a consciousness of her fascination.
Varenka seemed always absorbed in some important work; and therefore it seemed she could not take any interest in anything irrelevant. It was this very contrast to herself that especially attracted Kitty to her. Kitty felt that in her and in her mode of life she might find what she was seeking with so much trouble,—an interest in life, the dignity of life outside of the social relationships of young women to young men, which now seemed to Kitty like an ignominious exposure of merchandise waiting for a purchaser. The more she studied her unknown friend, the more convinced she became that this girl was the most perfect creature which she could imagine and the more she longed to become acquainted with her.
The two girls passed each other many times every day; and every time they met Kitty's eyes seemed always to ask: "Who are you? What are you? Are you not, in truth, the charming person that I imagine you to be? But for Heaven's sake," the look seemed to add, "don't think that I would permit myself to demand your acquaintance! I simply admire you, and love you."
"I also love you, and you are very, very charming; and I would love you still better, if I had time," replied
