It was suddenly as though he had never been, Vera went back to Nina.

They stood close to one another in the middle of the room, and talked in whispers.

“What are we going to do?”

“We can only wait!”

“They’ll never dare to search your room, Vera.”

“One doesn’t know now... everything’s so different.”

“Vera, you are brave.  Forgive me what I said just now....  I’ll help you if you want—­”

“Hush, Nina dear.  Not that now.  We’ve got to think—­what’s best....”

They kissed very quietly, and then they sat down by the table and waited.  There was simply nothing else to do.

Vera said that, during that pause, she could see the little policeman everywhere.  In every part of the room she found him, with his fat legs and dirty, streaky face and open collar.  The flat was heavy, portentous with his presence, as though it stood with a self-important finger on its lips saying, “I’ve got a secret in here. Such a secret.  You don’t know what I’ve got....”

They discussed in whispers as to who would come in first.  Nicholas or Uncle Ivan or Bohun or Sacha?  And supposing one of them came in while the soldiers were there?  Who would be the most dangerous?  Sacha?  She would scream and give everything away.  Suppose they had seen him enter and were simply waiting, on the cat-and-mouse plan, to catch him?  That was an intolerable thought.

“I think,” said Nina, “I must go and see whether there’s any one outside.”

But there was no need for her to do that.  Even as she spoke they heard the steps on the stairs; and instantly afterwards there came the loud knocking on their door.  Vera pressed Nina’s hand and went into the hall.

“Kto tam...  Who’s there?” she asked.

“Open the door!...  The Workmen and Soldiers’ Committee demand entrance in the name of the Revolution.”

She opened the door at once.  During those first days of the Revolution they cherished certain melodramatic displays.

Whether consciously or no they built on all the old French Revolution traditions, or perhaps it is that every Revolution produces of necessity the same clothing with which to cover its nakedness.  A strange mixture of farce and terror were those detachments of so-called justice.  At their head there was, as a rule, a student, often smiling and bespectacled.  The soldiers themselves, from one of the Petrograd regiments, were frankly out for a good time and enjoyed themselves thoroughly, but, as is the Slavonic way, playfulness could pass with surprising suddenness to dead earnest—­with, indeed, so dramatic a precipitance that the actors themselves were afterwards amazed.  Of these “little, regrettable mistakes” there had already, during the week, been several examples.  To Vera, with the knowledge of the contents of her linen-cupboard, the men seemed terrifying enough.  Their leader was a fat and beaming student—­quite a boy.  He was very polite, saying “Zdrastvuite," and taking off his cap.  The men behind him—­hulking men from one of the Guards regiments—­pushed about in the little hall like a lot of puppies, joking with one another, holding their rifles upside down, and making sudden efforts at a seriousness that they could not possibly sustain.