From all of this I was roused by a sharp knock on my door, and I started up, still bewildered and bemused, but saying to myself aloud, “There’s some one there! there’s some one there!...”  I stood for quite a while, listening, on the middle of my shining floor, then the knock was almost fiercely repeated.  I opened the door and, to my surprise, found Semyonov standing there.  He came in, smiling, very polite of course.

“You’ll forgive me, Ivan Andreievitch,” he said.  “This is terribly unceremonious.  But I had an urgent desire to see you, and you wouldn’t wish me, in the circumstances, to have waited.”

“Please,” I said.  I went to the window and drew the blinds.  I lit the lamp.  He took off his Shuba and we sat down.  The room was very dim now, and I could only see his mouth and square beard behind the lamp.

“I’ve no Samovar, I’m afraid,” I said.  “If I’d known you were coming I’d have told her to have it ready.  But it’s too late now.  She’s gone to bed.”

“Nonsense,” he said brusquely.  “You know that I don’t care about that.  Now we’ll waste no time.  Let us come straight to the point at once.  I’ve come to give you some advice, Ivan Andreievitch—­very simple advice.  Go home to England.”  Before he had finished the sentence I had felt the hostility in his voice; I knew that it was to be a fight between us, and strangely, at once the self-distrust and cowardice from which I had been suffering all those weeks left me.  I felt warm and happy.  I felt that with Semyonov I knew how to deal.  I was afraid of Vera and Nina, perhaps, because I loved them, but of Semyonov, thank God, I was not afraid.

“Well, now, that’s very kind of you,” I said, “to take so much interest in my movements.  I didn’t know that it mattered to you so much where I was.  Why must I go?”

“Because you are doing no good here.  You are interfering in things of which you have no knowledge.  When we met before you interfered, and you must honestly admit that you did not improve things.  Now it is even more serious.  I must ask you to leave my family alone, Ivan Andreievitch.”

“Your family!” I retorted, laughing.  “Upon my word, you do them great honour.  I wonder whether they’d be very proud and pleased if they knew of your adoption of them.  I haven’t noticed on their side any very great signs of devotion.”

He laughed.  “No, you haven’t noticed, Ivan Andreievitch.  But there, you don’t really notice very much.  You think you see the devil of a lot and are a mighty clever fellow; but we’re Russians, you know, and it takes more than sentimental mysticism to understand us.  But even if you did understand us—­which you don’t—­the real point is that we don’t want you, any of you, patronising, patting us on the shoulder, explaining us to ourselves, talking about our souls, our unpunctuality, and our capacity for drink.  However, that’s merely in a general way.  In a personal, direct, and individual way, I beg you not to visit my family again.  Stick to your own countrymen.”