shape could be made out, uncouth, and as if insecure on the low seat on which it rested.  The only person known to me was little Julius Laspara, who seemed to have been poring over the map, his feet twined tightly round the chair-legs.  He got down briskly and bowed to Miss Haldin, looking absurdly like a hooknosed boy with a beautiful false pepper-and-salt beard.  He advanced, offering his seat, which Miss Haldin declined.  She had only come in for a moment to say a few words to Peter Ivanovitch.

His high-pitched voice became painfully audible in the room.

“Strangely enough, I was thinking of you this very afternoon, Natalia Victorovna.  I met Mr. Razumov.  I asked him to write me an article on anything he liked.  You could translate it into English—­with such a teacher.”

He nodded complimentarily in my direction.  At the name of Razumov an indescribable sound, a sort of feeble squeak, as of some angry small animal, was heard in the corner occupied by the man who seemed much too large for the chair on which he sat.  I did not hear what Miss Haldin said.  Laspara spoke again.

“It’s time to do something, Natalia Victorovna.  But I suppose you have your own ideas.  Why not write something yourself?  Suppose you came to see us soon?  We could talk it over.  Any advice...”

Again I did not catch Miss Haldin’s words.  It was Laspara’s voice once more.

“Peter Ivanovitch?  He’s retired for a moment into the other room.  We are all waiting for him.”  The great man, entering at that moment, looked bigger, taller, quite imposing in a long dressing-gown of some dark stuff.  It descended in straight lines down to his feet.  He suggested a monk or a prophet, a robust figure of same desert-dweller—­something Asiatic; and the dark glasses in conjunction with this costume made him more mysterious than ever in the subdued light.

Little Laspara went back to his chair to look at the map, the only brilliantly lit object in the room.  Even from my distant position by the door I could make out, by the shape of the blue part representing the water, that it was a map of the Baltic provinces.  Peter Ivanovitch exclaimed slightly, advancing towards Miss Haldin, checked himself on perceiving me, very vaguely no doubt; and peered with his dark, bespectacled stare.  He must have recognized me by my grey hair, because, with a marked shrug of his broad shoulders, he turned to Miss Haldin in benevolent indulgence.  He seized her hand in his thick cushioned palm, and put his other big paw over it like a lid.

While those two standing in the middle of the floor were exchanging a few inaudible phrases no one else moved in the room:  Laspara, with his back to us, kneeling on the chair, his elbows propped on the big-scale map, the shadowy enormity in the corner, the frankly staring man with the goatee on the sofa, the woman in the red blouse by his side—­not one of them stirred.  I suppose that really they