It was the final proof of her youth that she saw the whole universe working to fulfil her desire.

The other proof of her youth was that she began, for the first time, to suffer desperately.  The most casual mention of Lawrence’s name would make her heart beat furiously, suffocating her, her throat dry, her cheeks hot, her hands cold.  Then, as the minute of his arrival approached, she would sit as though she were the centre of a leaping fire that gradually inch by inch was approaching nearer to her, the flames staring like little eyes on the watch, the heat advancing and receding in waves like hands.  She hoped that no one would notice her agitation.  She talked nonsense to whomsoever was near to her with little nervous laughs; she seemed to herself to be terribly unreal, with a fierce hostile creature inside her who took her heart in his hot hands and pressed it, laughing at her.

And then the misery!  That little episode at the circus of which I had been a witness was only the first of many dreadful ventures.  She confessed to me afterwards that she did not herself know what she was doing.  And the final result of these adventures was to encourage her because he had not repelled her.  He must have noticed, she thought, the times when her hand had touched his, when his mouth had been, so close to hers that their very thoughts had mingled, when she had felt the stuff of his coat, and even for an instant stroked it.  He must have noticed these things, and still he had never rebuffed her.  He was always so kind to her; she fancied that his voice had a special note of tenderness in it when he spoke to her, and when she looked at his ugly, quiet, solid face, she could not believe that they were not meant for one another.  He must want her, her gaiety, happiness, youth—­it would be wrong for him not to!  There could be no girls in that stupid, practical, far-away England who would be the wife to him that she would be.

Then the cursed misery of that waiting!  They could hear in their sitting-room the steps coming up the stone stairs outside their flat, and every step seemed to be his.  Ah, he had come earlier than he had fixed.  Vera had stupidly forgotten, perhaps, or he had found waiting any longer impossible.  Yes, surely that was his footfall; she knew it so well.  There, now he was turning towards the door; there was a pause; soon there would be the tinkle of the bell!...

No, he had mounted higher; it was not Lawrence—­only some stupid, ridiculous creature who was impertinently daring to put her into this misery of disappointment.  And then she would wonder suddenly whether she had been looking too fixedly at the door, whether they had noticed her, and she would start and look about her self-consciously, blushing a little, her eyes hot and suspicious.

I can see her in all these moods; it was her babyhood that was leaving her at last.  She was never to be quite so spontaneously gay again, never quite so careless, so audacious, so casual, so happy.  In Russia the awkward age is very short, very dramatic, often enough very tragic.  Nina was as helpless as the rest of the world.