“Ah, ha!” he cried, and there was a little explosion; a cork spurted out and struck the ceiling; there was smoke and the crackling of glass.  He turned round and faced me, a smudge of ink on one of his cheeks, and that customary nervous unhappy smile on his lips.

“Well, how goes it?” I asked.

“Well enough.”  He touched his cheek then sucked his fingers.  “I must wash.  We have a guest to-night.  And the news, what’s the latest?”

He always asked me this question, having apparently the firm conviction that an Englishman must know more about the war than a man of any other nationality.  But he didn’t pause for an answer—­“News—­but of course there is none.  What can you expect from this Russia of ours?—­and the rest—­it’s all too far away for any of us to know anything about it—­only Germany’s close at hand.  Yes.  Remember that.  You forget it sometimes in England.  She’s very near indeed....  We’ve got a guest coming—­from the English Embassy.  His name’s Boon and a funny name too.  You don’t know him, do you?”

No, I didn’t know him.  I laughed.  Why should he think that I always knew everybody, I who kept to myself so?

“The English always stick together.  That’s more than can be said for us Russians.  We’re a rotten lot.  Well, I must go and wash.”

Then, whether by a sudden chance of light and shade, or if you like to have it, by a sudden revelation on the part of a beneficent Providence, he really did look malevolent, standing in the middle of the dirty little room, malevolent and pathetic too, like a cross, sick bird.

“Vera’s got a good dinner ready.  That’s one thing, Ivan Andreievitch,” he said; “and vodka—­a little bottle.  We got it from a friend.  But I don’t drink now, you know.”

He went off and I, going into the other room, found Vera Michailovna giving last touches to the table.  I sat and watched with pleasure her calm assured movements.  She really was splendid, I thought, with the fine carriage of her head, her large mild eyes, her firm strong hands.

“All ready for the guest, Vera Michailovna?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered, smiling at me, “I hope so.  He won’t be very particular, will he, because we aren’t princes?”

“I can’t answer for him,” I replied, smiling back at her.  “But he can’t be more particular than the Hon. Charles—­and he was a great success.”

The Hon. Charles was a standing legend in the family, and we always laughed when we mentioned him.

“I don’t know”—­she stopped her work at the table and stood, her hand up to her brow as though she would shade her eyes from the light—­“I wish he wasn’t coming—­the new Englishman, I mean.  Better perhaps as we were—­Nicholas—­” she stopped short.  “Oh, I don’t know!  They’re difficult times, Ivan Andreievitch.”

The door opened and old Uncle Ivan came in.  He was dressed very smartly with a clean white shirt and a black bow tie and black patent leather shoes, and his round face shone as the sun.