“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Oh, he laughs at him all the time, at his inventions and that kind of thing.  Markovitch gets awfully wild.  He is bit of an ass, isn’t he?”

“Do you like Semyonov?” I asked.

“I do rather,” said Henry.  “He’s very decent to me.  I had a walk with him one afternoon.  He said you were awfully brave at the Front.”

“Thank him for nothing,” I said.

“And he said you didn’t like him—­don’t you?”

“Ah, that’s too old a story,” I answered.  “We know what we feel about one another.”

“Well, Lawrence simply hates him,” continued Bohun.  “He says he’s the most thundering cad, and as bad as you make them.  I don’t see how he can tell.”

This interested me extremely.  “When did he tell you this?” I asked.

“Yesterday.  I asked him what he had to judge by and he said instinct.  I said he’d no right to go only by that.”

“Has Lawrence been much to the Markovitches?”

“Yes—­once or twice.  He just sits there and never opens his mouth.”

“Very wise of him if he hasn’t got anything to say.”

“No, but really—­do you think so?  It doesn’t make him popular.”

“Why, who doesn’t like him?”

“Nobody,” answered Henry ungrammatically.  “None of the English anyway.  They can’t stand him at the Embassy or the Mission.  They say he’s fearfully stuck-up and thinks about nothing but himself....  I don’t agree, of course—­all the same, he might make himself more agreeable to people.”

“What nonsense!” I answered hotly.  “Lawrence is one of the best fellows that ever breathed.  The Markovitches don’t dislike him, do they?”

“No, he’s quite different with them.  Vera Michailovna likes him I know.”

It was the first time that he had mentioned her name to me.  He turned towards me now, his face crimson.  “I say—­that’s really what I came to talk about, Durward.  I care for her madly!...  I’d die for her.  I would really.  I love her, Durward.  I see now I’ve never loved anybody before.”

“Well, what will you do about it?”

“Do about it?...  Why nothing, of course.  It’s all perfectly hopeless.  In the first place, there’s Markovitch.”

“Yes.  There’s Markovitch,” I agreed.

“She doesn’t care for him—­does she?  You know that—­” He waited, eagerly staring into my face.

I had a temptation to laugh.  He was so very young, so very helpless, and yet—­that sense of his youth had pathos in it too, and I suddenly liked young Bohun—­for the first time.

“Look here, Bohun,” I said, trying to speak with a proper solemnity.  “Don’t be a young ass.  You know that it’s hopeless, any feeling of that kind.  She does care for her husband.  She could never care for you in that way, and you’d only make trouble for them all if you went on with it....  On the other hand, she needs a friend badly.  You can do that for her.  Be her pal.  See that things are all right in the house.  Make a friend of Markovitch himself.  Look after him!”