Semyonov leant over the table and whispered something in Markovitch’s ear.  I had seen that Markovitch had already been longing to speak.  He jumped up on to his feet, fiercely excited, his eyes flaming.

“It’s nonsense that you are talking, sheer nonsense!” he cried.  “Russia’s lost the war, and all we who believed in her have our hearts broken.  Russia won’t be mended by a few vapouring idiots who talk and talk without taking action.”

“What do you call me?” screamed Grogoff.

“I mention no names,” said Markovitch, his little eyes dancing with anger.  “Take it or no as you please.  But I say that we have had enough of all this vapouring talk, all this pretence of courage.  Let us admit that freedom has failed in Russia, that she must now submit herself to the yoke.”

“Coward!  Coward!” screamed Grogoff.

“It’s you who are the coward!” cried Markovitch.

“Call me that and I’ll show you!”

“I do call you it!”

There was an instant’s pause, during which we all of us had, I suppose, some idea of trying to intervene.

But it was too late.  Grogoff raised his hand and, with all his force, flung his glass at Markovitch.  Markovitch ducked his head, and the glass smashed with a shattering tinkle on the wall behind him.

We all cried out, but the only thing of which I was conscious was that Lawrence had sprung from his seat, had crossed to where Vera was standing, and had put his hand on her arm.  She glanced up at him.  That look which they exchanged, a look of revelation, of happiness, of sudden marvellous security, was so significant that I could have cried out to them both, “Look out!  Look out!”

But if I had cried they would not have heard me.

My next instinct was to turn to Markovitch.  He was frowning, coughing a little, and feeling the top of his collar.  His face was turned towards Grogoff and he was speaking—­could catch some words:  “No right... in my own house...  Boris...  I apologise... please don’t think of it.”  But his eyes were not looking at Boris at all; they were turned towards Vera, staring at her, begging her, beseeching her....  What had he seen?  How much had he understood?  And Nina?  And Semyonov?

But at once, in a way most truly Russian, the atmosphere had changed.  It was Nina who controlled the situation.  “Boris,” she cried, “come here!”

We all waited in silence.  He looked at her, a little sulkily, his head hanging, but his eyes glancing up at her.

He seemed nothing then but a boy caught in some misdemeanour, obstinate, sulky, but ready to make peace if a chance were offered him.

“Boris, come here!”

He moved across to her, looking her full in the face, his mouth sulky, but his eyes rebelliously smiling.

“Well... well....”

She stood away from the table, drawn to her full height, her eyes commanding him:  “How dare you!  Boris, how dare you!  My birthday—­mine—­and you’ve spoilt it, spoilt it all.  Come here—­up close!”