“I tell you that Lawrence can look after himself,” I insisted angrily.

Semyonov knew and Markovitch knew that I was speaking to Vera.  No one then said a word.  There was a long pause.  At last Semyonov saw fit to go.

“I’m off to the Duma,” he said.  “There’s a split, I believe.  And I want to hear whether it’s true that the Czar’s abdicated.”

“I believe you’d rather he hadn’t, Alexei Petrovitch,” Markovitch broke in fiercely.

He laughed at us all and said, “Whose interests am I studying?  My own?...  Holy Russia’s?...  Yours?...  When will you learn, Nicholas my friend, that I am a spectator, not a participator?”

Vera was alone during most of that day; and even now, after the time that has passed, I cannot bear to think of what she suffered.  She realised quite definitely and now, with no chance whatever of self-deception, that she loved Lawrence with a force that no denial or sacrifice on her part could alter.  She told me afterwards that she walked up and down that room for hours, telling herself again and again that she must not go and see whether he were safe.  She did not dare even to leave the room.  She felt that if she entered her bedroom the sight of her hat and coat there would break down her resolution, that if she went to the head of the stairs and listened she must then go farther and then farther again.  She knew quite well that to go to him now would mean complete surrender.  She had no illusions about that.  The whole of her body was quivering with desire for his embrace, for the warm strength of his body, for the kindness in his eyes, and the compelling mastery of his hands.

She had never loved a man before; but it seemed to her now that she had known all these sensations always, and that she was now, at last, her real self, and that the earlier Vera had been a ghost.  And what ghosts were Nina and Markovitch!

She told me afterwards that, on looking back, this seemed to her the most horrible part of the horrible afternoon.  These two, who had been for so many years the very centre of her life, whom she had forced to hold up, as it were, the whole foundation of her existence, now simply were not real at all.  She might call to them, and their voices were like far echoes or the wind.  She gazed at them, and the colours of the room and the street seemed to shine through them....  She fought for their reality.  She forced herself to recall all the many things that they had done together, Nina’s little ways, the quarrels with Nicholas, the reconciliations, the times when he had been ill, the times when they had gone to the country, to the theatre... and through it all she heard Semyonov’s voice, “By the way, what about your friend Lawrence?...  He’s in a position of very considerable danger... considerable danger... considerable danger...”

By the evening she was almost frantic.  Nina had been with a girl friend in the Vassily Ostrov all day.  She would perhaps stay there all night if there were any signs of trouble.  No one returned.  Only the clock ticked on.  Old Sacha asked whether she might go out for an hour.  Vera nodded her head.  She was then quite alone in the flat.