Although he spoke obstinately, and with a show of assurance, I realised, behind his words, his own uncertainty.

“See here, Semyonov,” I said.  “It’s just my own Englishmen that I am going to stick to.  What about Lawrence?  And what about Bohun?  Will you prevent me from continuing my friendship with them?”

“Lawrence...  Lawrence,” he said slowly, in a voice quite other than his earlier one, and as though he were talking aloud to himself.  “Now, that’s strange... there’s a funny thing.  A heavy, dull, silent Englishman, as ugly as only an Englishman can be, and the two of them are mad about him—­nothing in him—­nothing—­and yet there it is.  It’s the fidelity in the man, that’s what it is, Durward....”  He suddenly called out the word aloud, as though he’d made a discovery.  “Fidelity... fidelity... that’s what we Russians admire, and there’s a man with not enough imagination to make him unfaithful.  Fidelity!—­lack of imagination, lack of freedom—­that’s all fidelity is....  But I’m faithful....  God knows I’m faithful—­always! always!”

He stared past me.  I swear that he did not see me, that I had vanished utterly from his vision.  I waited.  He was leaning forward, pressing both his thick white hands on the table.  His gaze must have pierced the ice beyond the walls, and the worlds beyond the ice.

Then quite suddenly he came back to me and said very quietly,

“Well, there it is, Ivan Andreievitch....  You must leave Vera and Nina alone.  It isn’t your affair.”

We continued the discussion then in a strange and friendly way.  “I believe it to be my affair,” I answered quietly, “simply because they care for me and have asked me to help them if they were in trouble.  I still deny that Vera cares for Lawrence....  Nina has had some girl’s romantic idea perhaps... but that is the extent of the trouble.  You are trying to make things worse, Alexei Petrovitch, for your own purposes—­and God only knows what they are.”

He now spoke so quietly that I could scarcely hear his words.  He was leaning forward on the table, resting his head on his hands and looking gravely at me.

“What I can’t understand, Ivan Andreievitch,” he said, “is why you’re always getting in my way.  You did so in Galicia, and now here you are again.  It is not as though you were strong or wise—­no, it is because you are persistent.  I admire you in a way, you know, but now, this time, I assure you that you are making a great mistake in remaining.  You will be able to influence neither Vera Michailovna nor your bullock of an Englishman when the moment comes.  At the crisis they will never think of you at all, and the end of it simply will be that all parties concerned will hate you.  I don’t wish you any harm, and I assure you that you will suffer terribly if you stay....  By the way, Ivan Andreievitch,” his voice suddenly dropped, “you haven’t ever had—­by chance—­just by chance—­any photograph of Marie Ivanovna with you, have you?  Just by chance, you know....”