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"Who's that? What a piteous face!" he asked, noticing a sick man

of medium height sitting on a bench, wearing a brown overcoat and

white trousers that fell in strange folds about his long,

fleshless legs. This man lifted his straw hat, showed his scanty

curly hair and high forehead, painfully reddened by the pressure

of the hat.

"That's Petrov, an artist," answered Kitty, blushing. "And that's

his wife," she added, indicating Anna Pavlovna, who, as though on

purpose, at the very instant they approached walked away after a

child that had run off along a path.

"Poor fellow! and what a nice face he has!" said the prince. "Why

don't you go up to him? He wanted to speak to you."

"Well, let us go, then," said Kitty, turning round resolutely.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked Petrov.

Petrov got up, leaning on his stick, and looked shyly at the

prince.

"This is my daughter," said the prince. "Let me introduce

myself."

The painter bowed and smiled, showing his strangely dazzling

white teeth.