“Yes, I know it,” I said.

“It’s one of those pictures with eyes that follow you all round the room.  At least it has now.  I usen’t to notice them.  Now they stare at you as though they’d eat you, and I know that Markovitch feels them because he keeps looking up at the beastly thing.  Then there’s—­But no, I’m not going to talk any more about it.  It isn’t any good.  One gets thinking of anything these days.  One’s nerves are all on edge.  And that flat’s too full of people any way.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed.

We arrived at Rozanov’s house, and went up in a very elegant heavily-gilt lift.  Once in the flat we were enveloped in a cloud of men and women, tobacco smoke, and so many pictures that it was like tumbling into an art-dealer’s.  Where there weren’t pictures there was gilt, and where there wasn’t gilt there was naked statuary, and where there wasn’t naked statuary there was Rozanov, very red and stout and smiling, gay in a tightly fitting black-tail coat, white waistcoat and black trousers.  Who all the people were I haven’t the least idea.  There was a great many.  A number of Jews and Jewesses, amiable, prosperous, and kindly, an artist or two, a novelist, a lady pianist, two or three actors.  I noticed these.  Then there was an old maid, a Mlle. Finisterre, famous in Petrograd society for her bitterness and acrimony, and in appearance an exact copy of Balzac’s Sophie Gamond.

I noticed several of those charming, quiet, wise women of whom Russia is so prodigal, a man or two whom I had met at different times, especially one officer, one of the finest, bravest, and truest men I have ever known; some of the inevitable giggling girls—­and then suddenly, standing quite alone, Nina!

Her loneliness was the first thing that struck me.  She stood back against the wall underneath the shining frames, looking about her with a nervous, timid smile.  Her hair was piled up on top of her head in the old way that she used to do when she was trying to imitate Vera, and I don’t know why but that seemed to me a good omen, as though she were already on her way back to us.  She was wearing a very simple white frock.

In spite of her smile she looked unhappy, and I could see that during this last week experience had not been kind to her, because there was an air of shyness and uncertainty which had never been there before.  I was just going over to speak to her when two of the giggling girls surrounded her and carried her off.

I carried the little picture of her in my mind all through the noisy, strident meal that followed.  I couldn’t see her from where I sat, nor did I once catch the tones of her voice, although I listened.  Only a month ago there would have been no party at which Nina was present where her voice would not have risen above all others.