She broke off, suddenly stood up, and very low, almost whispering, said:

"I have fancied lately that it might come. And then, what should I do?

Oh, what should I do? With Nicholas and Nina and all the trouble there is now in the world--and Russia--I'm afraid of myself--and ashamed...."

I could not speak. I was utterly astonished. Could it be Bohun of whom she was speaking? No, I saw at once that the idea was ludicrous. But if not--.

I took her hand.

"Vera," I said. "Believe me. I'm much older than you, and I know. Love's always selfish, always cruel to others, always means trouble, sorrow, and disappointment. But it's worth it, even when it brings complete disaster. Life isn't life without it."

I felt her hand tremble in mine.

"I don't know," she said, "I know nothing of it, except my love for Nina. It isn't that now there's anybody. Don't think that. There is no one--no one. Only my self-confidence is gone. I can't see clearly any more. My duty is to Nina and Nicholas. And if they are happy nothing else matters--nothing. And I'm afraid that I'm going to do them harm."

She paused as though she were listening. "There's no one there, is there?" she asked me--"there by the door?"

"No--no one."

"There are so many noises in this house. Don't they disturb you?"

"I don't think of them now. I'm used to them--and in fact I like them."

She went on: "It's Uncle Alexei of course. He comes to see us nearly every day. He's very pleasant, more pleasant than he has ever been before, but he has a dreadful effect on Nicholas--"

"I know the effect he can have," I said.

"I know that Nicholas has been feeling for a long time that his inventions are no use. He will never own it to me or to any one--but I can tell. I know it so well. The war came and his new feeling about Russia carried him along. He put everything into that. Now that has failed him, and he despises himself for having expected it to do otherwise. He's raging about, trying to find something that he can believe in, and Uncle Alexei knows that and plays on that.... He teases him; he drives him wild and then makes him happy again. He can do anything with him he pleases. He always could. But now he has some plan.

I used to think that he simply laughed at people because it amused him to see how weak they can be. But now there's more than that. He's been hurt himself at last, and that has hurt his pride, and he wants to hurt back.... It's all in the dark. The war's in the dark... everything...."

Then she smiled and put her hand on my arm. "That's why I've come to you, because I trust you and believe you and know you say what you mean."

Once before Marie had said those same words to me. It was as though I heard her voice again.

"I won't fail you," I said.

There was a knock on the door, it was flung open as though by the wind, and Nina was with us. Her face was rosy with the cold, her eyes laughed under her little round fur cap. She came running across the room, pulled herself up with a little cry beside the bed, and then flung herself upon me, throwing her arms around my neck and kissing me.

"My dear Nina!" cried Vera.

She looked up, laughing.

"Why not? Poor Durdles. Are you better? _Biednie_... give me your hands. But--how cold they are! And there are draughts everywhere. I've brought you some chocolates--and a book."

"My dear!..." Vera cried again. "He won't like _that_," pointing to a work of fiction by a modern Russian literary lady whose heart and brain are of the succulent variety.

"Why not? She's very good. It's lovely! All about impossible people!

Durdles, _dear_! I'll give up the party. We won't go. We'll sit here and entertain you. I'll send Boris away. We'll tell him we don't want him."

"Boris!" cried Vera.

"Yes," Nina laughed a little uneasily, I thought. "I know you said he wasn't to come. He'll quarrel with Rozanov of course. But he said he would. And so how was one to prevent him? You're always so tiresome, Vera.... I'm not a baby now, nor is Boris. If he wants to come he shall come."

Vera stood away from us both. I could see that she was very angry. I had never seen her angry before.

"You know that it's impossible, Nina," she said. "You know that Rozanov hates him. And besides--there are other reasons. You know them perfectly well, Nina."

Nina stood there pouting, tears were in her eyes.

"You're unfair," she said. "You don't let me do anything. You give me no freedom, I don't care for Boris, but if he wants to go he shall go. I'm grown up now. You have your Lawrence. Let me have my Boris."

"My Lawrence?" asked Vera.

"Yes. You know that you're always wanting him to come--always looking for him. I like him, too. I like him very much. But you never let me talk to him. You never--"

"Quiet, Nina." Vera's voice was trembling. Her face was sterner than I'd ever seen it. "You're making me angry."

"I don't care how angry I make you. It's true. You're impossible now.

Why shouldn't I have my friends? I've n.o.body now. You never let me have anybody. And I like Mr. Lawrence--"

She began to sob, looking the most desolate figure.

Vera turned.

"You don't know what you've said, Nina, nor how you've hurt.... You can go to your party as you please--"

And before I could stop her she was gone.

Nina turned to me a breathless, tearful face. She waited; we heard the door below closed.

"Oh, Durdles, what have I done?"

"Go after her! Stop her!" I said.

Nina vanished and I was alone. My room was intensely quiet.

XVII

They didn't come to see me again together. Vera came twice, kind and good as always, but with no more confidences; and Nina once with flowers and fruit and a wild chattering tongue about the cinemas and Smyrnov, who was delighting the world at the Narodny Dom, and the wonderful performance of Lermontov's "Masquerade" that was shortly to take place at the Alexander Theatre.

"Are you and Vera friends again?" I asked her.

"Oh yes! Why not?" And she went on, snapping a chocolate almond between her teeth--"The one at the 'Piccadilly' is the best. It's an Italian one, and there's a giant in it who throws people all over the place, out of windows and everywhere. Ah! how lovely!... I wish I could go every night."

"You ought to be helping with the war," I said severely.

"Oh, I hate the war!" she answered. "We're all terribly tired of it.

Tanya's given up going to the English hospital now, and is just meaning to be as gay as she can be; and Zinaida Fyodorovna had just come back from her Otriad on the Galician front, and she says it's shocking there now--no food or dancing or anything. Why doesn't every one make peace?"