He sighed, poor boy, with the difficulty of the whole affair.

“Giving them up in despair, Bohun, is as bad as thinking you understand them completely.  Just take what comes.”

“Well, ‘what came’ was this.  On that Thursday evening Markovitch was as though he’d been struck in the face.  You never saw such a change.  Of course we all noticed it.  White and sickly, saying nothing to anybody.  Next morning, quite early, Semyonov came over and proposed lodging with us.

“It absolutely took my breath away, but no one else seemed very astonished.  What on earth did he want to leave his comfortable flat and come to us for?  We were packed tight enough as it was.  I never liked the feller, but upon my word I simply hated him as he sat there, so quiet, stroking his beard and smiling at us in his sarcastic way.

“To my amazement Markovitch seemed quite keen about it.  Not only agreed, but offered his own room as a bedroom.  ‘What about your inventions?’ some one asked him.

“‘I’ve given them up,’ he said, looking at us all just like a caged animal—­’for ever.’

“I would have offered to retire myself if I hadn’t been so interested, but this was all so curious that I was determined to see it out to the end.  And you’d told me to look after Markovitch.  If ever he’d wanted looking after it was now!  I could see that Vera hated the idea of Semyonov coming, but after Markovitch had spoken she never said a word.  So then it was all settled.”

“What did Nina do?” I asked.

“Nina?  She never said anything either.  At the end she went up to Semyonov and took his hand and said, ’I’m so glad you’re coming, Uncle Alexei,’ and looked at Vera.  Oh! they’re all as queer as they can be, I tell you!”

“What happened next?” I asked eagerly.

“Everything’s happened and nothing’s happened,” he replied.  “Nina’s run away.  Of course you know that.  What she did it for I can’t imagine.  Fancy going to a fellow like Grogoff!  Lawrence has been coming every day and just sitting there, not saying anything.  Semyonov’s amiable to everybody—­especially amiable to Markovitch.  But he’s laughing at him all the time I think.  Anyway he makes him mad sometimes, so that I think Markovitch is going to strike him.  But of course he never does....  Now here’s a funny thing.  This is really what I want to ask you most about.”

He drew his chair closer to my bed and dropped his voice as though he were going to whisper a secret to me.

“The other night I was awake—­about two in the morning it was—­and wanted a book—­so I went into the dining-room.  I’d only got bedroom slippers on and I was stopped at the door by a sound.  It was Semyonov sitting over by the further window, in his shirt and trousers, his beard in his hands, and sobbing as though his heart would break.  I’d never heard a man cry like that.  I hate hearing a man cry anyway.  I’ve heard fellers at the Front when they’re