He called again more loudly: 

“Nina...  Nina!”

“Well?” She turned towards him, her eyes laughing at him.

“Drink my health.”

“I can’t.  I have only water.”

“Then you must drink wine.”

“I won’t.  I detest it.”

“But you must.”

He came over to her and poured a little red wine into her water.  She turned and emptied the glass over his hand.  For an instant his face was dark with rage.

“I’ll pay you for that,” I heard him whisper.

She shrugged her shoulders.  “He’s tiresome, Boris....” she said, “I like your Englishman better.”

We were ever gayer and gayer.  There were now of course no cakes nor biscuits, but there was jam with our tea, and there were even some chocolates.  I noticed that Vera and Lawrence were getting on together famously.  They talked and laughed, and her eyes were full of pleasure.

Markovitch came up and stood behind them, watching them.  His eyes devoured his wife.

“Vera!” he said suddenly.

“Yes!” she cried.  She had not known that he was behind her; she was startled.  She turned round and he came forward and kissed her hand.  She let him do this, as she let him do everything, with the indulgence that one allows a child.  He stood, afterwards, half in the shadow, watching her.

And now the moment for the event of the evening had arrived.  The doors of Markovitch’s little work-room were suddenly opened, and there—­instead of the shabby untidy dark little hole—­there was a splendid Christmas Tree blazing with a hundred candles.  Coloured balls and frosted silver and wooden figures of red and blue hung all about the tree—­it was most beautifully done.  On a table close at hand were presents.  We all clapped our hands.  We were childishly delighted.  The old great-aunt cried with pleasure.  Boris Grogoff suddenly looked like a happy boy of ten.  Happiest and proudest of them all was Markovitch.  He stood there, a large pair of scissors in his hand, waiting to cut the string round the parcels.  We said again and again, “Marvellous!” “Wonderful!” “Splendid!"...  “But this year—­however did you find it, Vera Michailovna?” “To take such trouble!...”  “Splendid!  Splendid!” Then we were given our presents.  Vera, it was obvious had chosen them, for there was taste and discrimination in the choice of every one.  Mine was a little old religious figure in beaten silver—­Lawrence had a silver snuff-box....  Every one was delighted.  We clapped our hands.  We shouted.  Some one cried “Cheers for our host and hostess!”

We gave them, and in no half measure.  We shouted.  Boris Grogoff cried, “More cheers!”

It was then that I saw Markovitch’s face that had been puckered with pleasure like the face of a delighted child suddenly stiffen, his hand moved forward, then dropped.  I turned and found, standing in the doorway, quietly watching us, Alexei Petrovitch Semyonov.