“May I come in?” he said.

“If you must, you must,” I answered.  “I am not physically strong enough to prevent you.”

He laughed.  He was dripping wet.  He took off his hat and overcoat, sat down near the stove, bending forward, holding his cloak in his hands and watching the steam rise from it.

I moved away and stood watching.  I was not going to give him any possible illusion as to my welcoming him.  He turned round and looked at me.

“Truly, Ivan Andreievitch,” he said, “you are a fine host.  This is a miserable greeting.”

“There can be no greetings between us ever again,” I answered him.  “You are a blackguard.  I hope that this is our last meeting.”

“But it is,” he answered, looking at me with friendliness; “that is precisely why I’ve come.  I’ve come to say good-bye.”

“Good-bye?” I repeated with astonishment.  This chimed in so strangely with my premonition.  “I never was more delighted to hear it.  I hope you’re going a long distance from us all.”

“That’s as may be,” he answered.  “I can’t tell you definitely.”

“When are you going?” I asked.

“That I can’t tell you either.  But I have a premonition that it will be soon.”

“Oh, a premonition,” I said, disappointed.  “Is nothing settled?”

“No, not definitely.  It depends on others.”

“Have you told Vera and Nicholas?”

“No—­in fact, only last night Vera begged me to go away, and I told her that I would love to do anything to oblige her, but this time I was afraid that I couldn’t help her.  I would be compelled, alas, to stay on indefinitely.”

“Look here, Semyonov,” I said, “stop that eternal fooling.  Tell me honestly—­are you going or not?”

“Going away from where?” he asked, laughing.

“From the Markovitches, from all of us, from Petrograd?”

“Yes—­I’ve told you already,” he answered.  “I’ve come to say good-bye.”

“Then what did you mean by telling Vera—­”

“Never you mind, Ivan Andreievitch.  Don’t worry your poor old head with things that are too complicated for you—­a habit of yours, I’m afraid.  Just believe me when I say that I’ve come to say good-bye.  I have an intuition that we shall never talk together again.  I may be wrong.  But my intuitions are generally correct.”

I noticed then that his face was haggard, his eyes dark, the light in them exhausted as though he had not slept....  I had never before seen him show positive physical distress.  Let his soul be what it might, his body seemed always triumphant.

“Whether your intuition is right or no,” I said, “this is the last time.  I never intend to speak to you again if I can help it.  The day that I hear that you have really left us, never to return, will be one of the happiest days of my life.”

Semyonov gave me a strange look, humorous, ironical, and, upon my word, almost affectionate:  “That’s very sad what you say, Ivan Andreievitch—­if you mean it.  And I suppose you mean it, because you English always do mean what you say....  But it’s sad because, truly, I have friendly feelings towards you, and you’re almost the only man in the world of whom I could say that.”