He hoped that in a moment Vera or Uncle Ivan would come and the scene would end.

Semyonov, meanwhile, continued:  “What were those words you used to me not so long ago?  Something about free Russia, I think—­Russia moving like one man to save the world—­Russia with an unbroken front....  Too optimistic, weren’t you?”

The padding feet stopped.  In a whisper that seemed to Bohun to fill the room with echoing sound Markovitch said: 

“You have tempted me for weeks now, Alexei....  I don’t know why you hate me so, nor why you pursue me.  Go back to your own place.  If I am an unfortunate man, and by my own fault, that should be nothing to you who are more fortunate.”

“Torment you!  I?...  My dear Nicholas, never!  But you are so childish in your ideas—­and are you unfortunate?  I didn’t know it.  Is it about your inventions that you are speaking?  Well, they were never very happy, were they?”

“You praised them to me!”

“Did I?...  My foolish kindness of heart, I’m afraid.  To tell the truth, I was thankful when you saw things as they were...”

“You took them away from me.”

“I took them away?  What nonsense!  It was your own wish—­Vera’s wish too.”

“Yes, you persuaded both Vera and Nina that they were no good.  They believed in them before you came.”

“You flatter me, Nicholas.  I haven’t such power over Vera’s opinions, I’m afraid.  If I tell her anything she believes at once the opposite.  You must have seen that yourself.”

“You took her belief away from me.  You took her love away from me.”

Semyonov laughed.  That laugh seemed to rouse Markovitch to frenzy.  He screamed out.  “You have taken everything from me!...  You will not leave me alone!  You must be careful.  You are in danger, I tell you.”

Semyonov sprang up from his chair, and the two men, advancing towards one another, came into Bohun’s vision.

Markovitch was like a madman, his hands raised, his eyes staring from his head, his body trembling.  Semyonov was quiet, motionless, smiling, standing very close to the other.

“Well, what are you going to do?” he asked.

Markovitch stood for a moment, his hands raised, then his whole body seemed to collapse.  He moved away, muttering something which Bohun could not hear.  With shuffling feet, his head lowered, he went out of the room.  Semyonov returned to his seat.

To Bohun, an innocent youth with very simple and amiable ideas about life, the whole thing seemed “beastly beyond words.”

“I saw a man torture a dog once,” he told me.  “He didn’t do much to it really.  Tied it up to a tree and dug into it with a pen-knife.  I went home and was sick....  Well, I felt sick this time, too.”