Foma glanced from behind his father's shoulder and noticed that a slender woman with magnificent fair hair was sitting in the front corner of the room, resting her elbows on the table; her dark eyes, her thin eyebrows and plump, red lips strikingly defined on her pale face.

Behind her armchair stood a large philodendron-plant whose big, figured leaves were hanging down in the air over her little golden head.
"How do you do, Sophya Pavlovna," said Mayakin, tenderly, approaching her with his hand outstretched.

"What, are you still collecting contributions from poor people like us ?" Foma bowed to her mutely, not hearing her answer to Mayakin, nor what his father was saying to him.

The lady stared at him steadfastly and smiled to him affably and serenely.

Her childlike figure, clothed in some kind of dark fabric, was almost blended with the crimson stuff of the armchair, while her wavy, golden hair and her pale face shone against the dark background.