He took her hand, and, very solemnly, bent down and kissed it.

“I didn’t know myself, dear Vera Michailovna.  I only arrived in Petrograd yesterday; and then in my house everything was wrong, and I’ve been busy all day.  But I felt that I must run in and give you the greetings of the season....  Ah, Nicholas, how are you?  And you, Ivan?...  I telephoned to you....  Nina, my dear....”  And so on.  He went round and shook hands with them all.  He was introduced to Bohun and Lawrence.  He was very genial, praising the tree, laughing, shouting in the ears of the great-aunt.  But no one responded.  As so frequently happens in Russia the atmosphere was suddenly changed.  No one had anything to say.  The candles on the tree were blown out.  Of course, the evening was not nearly ended.  There would be tea and games, perhaps—­at any rate every one would sit and sit until three or four if, for no other reason, simply because it demanded too much energy to rise and make farewells.  But the spirit of the party was utterly dead....

The samovar hissed at the end of the table.  Vera Michailovna sat there making tea for every one.  Semyonov (I should now in the heart of his relations, have thought of him as Alexei Petrovitch, but so long had he been Semyonov to me that Semyonov he must remain) was next to her, and I saw that he took trouble, talking to her, smiling, his stiff strong white fingers now and then stroking his thick beard, his red lips parting a little, then closing so firmly that it seemed that they would never open again.

I noticed that his eyes often wandered towards me.  He was uneasy about my presence there, I thought, and that disturbed me.  I felt as I looked at him the same confusion as I had always felt.  I did not hate him.  His strength of character, his fearlessness, these things in a country famous for neither quality I was driven to admire and to respect.  And I could not hate what I admired.

And yet my fear gathered and gathered in volume as I watched him.  What would he do with these people?  What plans had he?  What purpose?  What secret, selfish ambitions was he out now to secure?

Markovitch was silent, drinking his tea, watching his wife, watching us all with his nervous frowning expression.

I rose to go and then, when I had said farewell to every one and went towards the door, Semyonov joined me.

“Well, Ivan Andreievitch,” he said.  “So we have not finished with one another yet.”

He looked at me with his steady unswerving eyes; he smiled.

I also smiled as I found my coat and hat in the little hall.  Sacha helped me into my Shuba.  He stood, his lips a little apart, watching me.

“What have you been doing all this time?” he asked me.

“I’ve been ill,” I answered.

“Not had, I hope.”

“No, not had.  But enough to keep me very idle.”

“As much of an optimist as ever?”