I was drawn in—­and I was glad.  I luxuriated in my gladness, lying there in my room under the wavering, uncertain light of two candles, hearing the church bells clanging and echoing mysteriously beyond the wall.  I lay there with a consciousness of being on the very verge of some adventure, with the assurance, too, that I was to be of use once more, to play my part, to fling aside, thank God, that old cloak of apathetic disappointment, of selfish betrayal, of cynical disbelief.  Semyonov had brought the old life back to me and I had shrunk from the impact of it; but he had brought back to me, too, the presences of my absent friends who, during these weary months, had been lost to me.  It seemed to me that, in the flickering twilight, John and Marie were bringing forward to me Vera and Nina and Jerry and asking me to look after them....  I would do my best.

And while I was thinking of these things Vera Michailovna came in.  She was suddenly in the room, standing there, her furs up to her throat, her body in shadow, but her large, grave eyes shining through the candlelight, her mouth smiling.

“Is it all right?” she said, coming forward.  “I’m not in the way?  You’re not sleeping?”

I told her that I was delighted to see her.

“I’ve been almost every day, but Marfa told me you were not well enough.  She does guard you—­like a dragon.  But to-night Nina and I are going to Rozanov’s, to a party, and she said she’d meet me here....  Shan’t I worry you?”

“Worry me!  You’re the most restful friend I have—­” I felt so glad to see her that I was surprised at my own happiness.  She sat down near to me, very quietly, moving, as she always did, softly and surely.

I could see that she was distressed because I looked ill, but she asked me no tiresome questions, said nothing about my madness in living as I did (always so irritating, as though I were a stupid child), praised the room, admired the Benois picture, and then talked in her soft, kindly voice.

“We’ve missed you so much, Nina and I,” she said.  “I told Nina that if she came to-night she wasn’t to make a noise and disturb you.”

“She can make as much noise as she likes,” I said.  “I like the right kind of noise.”

We talked a little about politics and England and anything that came into our minds.  We both felt, I know, a delightful, easy intimacy and friendliness and trust.  I had never with any other woman felt such a sense of friendship, something almost masculine in its comradeship and honesty.  And to-night this bond between us strengthened wonderfully.  I blessed my luck.  I saw that there were dark lines under her eyes and that she was pale.

“You’re tired,” I said.

“Yes, I am,” she acknowledged.  “And I don’t know why.  At least, I do know.  I’m going to use you selfishly, Durdles.  I’m going to tell you all my troubles and ask your help in every possible way.  I’m going to let you off nothing.”