I waited a little before I observed thoughtfully—­

“And yet he allowed all these days to pass.”

“How can we tell what work he may have to do here?  He is not an idler travelling for his pleasure.  His time may not be his own—­nor yet his thoughts, perhaps.”

She slowed her pace suddenly, and in a lowered voice added—­

“Or his very life”—­then paused and stood still “For all I know, he may have had to leave Geneva the very day he saw me.”

“Without telling you!” I exclaimed incredulously.

“I did not give him time.  I left him quite abruptly.  I behaved emotionally to the end.  I am sorry for it.  Even if I had given him the opportunity he would have been justified in taking me for a person not to be trusted.  An emotional, tearful girl is not a person to confide in.  But even if he has left Geneva for a time, I am confident that we shall meet again.”

“Ah! you are confident....  I dare say.  But on what ground?”

“Because I’ve told him that I was in great need of some one, a fellow-countryman, a fellow-believer, to whom I could give my confidence in a certain matter.”

“I see.  I don’t ask you what answer he made.  I confess that this is good ground for your belief in Mr. Razumov’s appearance before long.  But he has not turned up to-day?”

“No,” she said quietly, “not to-day;” and we stood for a time in silence, like people that have nothing more to say to each other and let their thoughts run widely asunder before their bodies go off their different ways.  Miss Haldin glanced at the watch on her wrist and made a brusque movement.  She had already overstayed her time, it seemed.

“I don’t like to be away from mother,” she murmured, shaking her head.  “It is not that she is very ill now.  But somehow when I am not with her I am more uneasy than ever.”

Mrs. Haldin had not made the slightest allusion to her son for the last week or more.  She sat, as usual, in the arm-chair by the window, looking out silently on that hopeless stretch of the Boulevard des Philosophes.  When she spoke, a few lifeless words, it was of indifferent, trivial things.

“For anyone who knows what the poor soul is thinking of, that sort of talk is more painful than her silence.  But that is bad too; I can hardly endure it, and I dare not break it.”

Miss Haldin sighed, refastening a button of her glove which had come undone.  I knew well enough what a hard time of it she must be having.  The stress, its causes, its nature, would have undermined the health of an Occidental girl; but Russian natures have a singular power of resistance against the unfair strains of life.  Straight and supple, with a short jacket open on her black dress, which made her figure appear more slender and her fresh but colourless face more pale, she compelled my wonder and admiration.

“I can’t stay a moment longer.  You ought to come soon to see mother.  You know she calls you ‘L’ami.’ It is an excellent name, and she really means it.  And now au revoir; I must run.”