She paused as though she were listening.  “There’s no one there, is there?” she asked me—­“there by the door?”

“No—­no one.”

“There are so many noises in this house.  Don’t they disturb you?”

“I don’t think of them now.  I’m used to them—­and in fact I like them.”

She went on:  “It’s Uncle Alexei of course.  He comes to see us nearly every day.  He’s very pleasant, more pleasant than he has ever been before, but he has a dreadful effect on Nicholas—­”

“I know the effect he can have,” I said.

“I know that Nicholas has been feeling for a long time that his inventions are no use.  He will never own it to me or to any one—­but I can tell.  I know it so well.  The war came and his new feeling about Russia carried him along.  He put everything into that.  Now that has failed him, and he despises himself for having expected it to do otherwise.  He’s raging about, trying to find something that he can believe in, and Uncle Alexei knows that and plays on that....  He teases him; he drives him wild and then makes him happy again.  He can do anything with him he pleases.  He always could.  But now he has some plan.  I used to think that he simply laughed at people because it amused him to see how weak they can be.  But now there’s more than that.  He’s been hurt himself at last, and that has hurt his pride, and he wants to hurt back....  It’s all in the dark.  The war’s in the dark... everything....”  Then she smiled and put her hand on my arm.  “That’s why I’ve come to you, because I trust you and believe you and know you say what you mean.”

Once before Marie had said those same words to me.  It was as though I heard her voice again.

“I won’t fail you,” I said.

There was a knock on the door, it was flung open as though by the wind, and Nina was with us.  Her face was rosy with the cold, her eyes laughed under her little round fur cap.  She came running across the room, pulled herself up with a little cry beside the bed, and then flung herself upon me, throwing her arms around my neck and kissing me.

“My dear Nina!” cried Vera.

She looked up, laughing.

“Why not?  Poor Durdles.  Are you better? Biednie... give me your hands.  But—­how cold they are!  And there are draughts everywhere.  I’ve brought you some chocolates—­and a book.”

“My dear!...”  Vera cried again.  “He won’t like that,” pointing to a work of fiction by a modern Russian literary lady whose heart and brain are of the succulent variety.

“Why not?  She’s very good.  It’s lovely!  All about impossible people!  Durdles, dear!  I’ll give up the party.  We won’t go.  We’ll sit here and entertain you.  I’ll send Boris away.  We’ll tell him we don’t want him.”

“Boris!” cried Vera.

“Yes,” Nina laughed a little uneasily, I thought.  “I know you said he wasn’t to come.  He’ll quarrel with Rozanov of course.  But he said he would.  And so how was one to prevent him?  You’re always so tiresome, Vera....  I’m not a baby now, nor is Boris.  If he wants to come he shall come.”