“They say the Czar’s been shot,” said another officer, a fat, red-faced man with very bright red trousers, “and that Rodziancko’s formed a government...”

I heard on every side such words as “People—­Rodziancko —­Protopopoff—­Freedom,” and the officer telling his tale again.  “And they stuck him in the stomach just as he was passing his house...”

Through all this tale Vera never moved.  I saw, to my surprise, that Lawrence was there now, standing near her but never speaking.  Semyonov stood on the stairs watching.

Suddenly I saw that she wanted me.

“Ivan Andreievitch,” she said, “will you do something for me?” She spoke very low, and her eyes did not look at me, but beyond us all out to the door.

“Certainly,” I said.

“Will you keep Alexei Petrovitch here?  Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Bohun can see us home.  I don’t want him to come with us.  Will you ask him to wait and speak to you?”

I went up to him.  “Semyonov,” I said, “I want a word with you, if I may—­”

“Certainly,” he said, with that irritating smile of his, as though he knew exactly of what I was thinking.

We moved up the dark stairs.  As we went I heard Vera’s clear, calm voice: 

“Will you see us home, Mr. Lawrence?...  I think it’s quite safe to go now.”

We stopped on the first floor under the electric light.  There were two easy-chairs there, with a dusty palm behind them.  We sat down.

“You haven’t really got anything to say to me,” he began.

“Oh yes, I have,” I said.

“No...  You simply suggested conversation because Vera asked you to do so.”

“I suggested a conversation,” I answered, “because I had something of some seriousness to tell you.”

“Well, she needn’t have been afraid,” he went on.  “I wasn’t going home with them.  I want to stop and watch these ridiculous people a little longer....  What had you got to say, my philosophical, optimistic friend?”

He looked quite his old self, sitting stockily in the chair, his strong thighs pressing against the cane as though they’d burst it, his thick square beard more wiry than ever, and his lips red and shining.  He seemed to have regained his old self-possession and confidence.

“What I wanted to say,” I began, “is that I’m going to tell you once more to leave Markovitch alone.  I know the other day—­that alone—­”

“Oh that!” he brushed it aside impatiently.  “There are bigger things than that just now, Durward.  You lack, as I have always said, two very essential things, a sense of humour and a sense of proportion.  And you pretend to know Russia whilst you are without those two admirable gifts!

“However, let us forget personalities....  There are better things here!”

As he spoke two young Russian officers came tumbling up the stairs.  They were talking excitedly, not listening to one another, red in the face and tripping over their swords.  They went up to the next floor, their voices very shrill.