“Oh, nothing.  I beg your pardon.  Strong feeling.  I am not surprised.”

“And you don’t know how abruptly I behaved to him!” she cried remorsefully.

I suppose I must have appeared surprised, for, looking at me with a still more heightened colour, she said she was ashamed to admit that she had not been sufficiently collected; she had failed to control her words and actions as the situation demanded.  She lost the fortitude worthy of both the men, the dead and the living; the fortitude which should have been the note of the meeting of Victor Haldin’s sister with Victor Haldin’s only known friend.  He was looking at her keenly, but said nothing, and she was—­she confessed—­painfully affected by his want of comprehension.  All she could say was:  “You are Mr. Razumov.”  A slight frown passed over his forehead.  After a short, watchful pause, he made a little bow of assent, and waited.

At the thought that she had before her the man so highly regarded by her brother, the man who had known his value, spoken to him, understood him, had listened to his confidences, perhaps had encouraged him—­her lips trembled, her eyes ran full of tears; she put out her hand, made a step towards him impulsively, saying with an effort to restrain her emotion, “Can’t you guess who I am?” He did not take the proffered hand.  He even recoiled a pace, and Miss Haldin imagined that he was unpleasantly affected.  Miss Haldin excused him, directing her displeasure at herself.  She had behaved unworthily, like an emotional French girl.  A manifestation of that kind could not be welcomed by a man of stern, self-contained character.

He must have been stern indeed, or perhaps very timid with women, not to respond in a more human way to the advances of a girl like Nathalie Haldin—­I thought to myself.  Those lofty and solitary existences (I remembered the words suddenly) make a young man shy and an old man savage—­often.

“Well,” I encouraged Miss Haldin to proceed.

She was still very dissatisfied with herself.

“I went from bad to worse,” she said, with an air of discouragement very foreign to her.  “I did everything foolish except actually bursting into tears.  I am thankful to say I did not do that.  But I was unable to speak for quite a long time.”

She had stood before him, speechless, swallowing her sobs, and when she managed at last to utter something, it was only her brother’s name—­“Victor—­Victor Haldin!” she gasped out, and again her voice failed her.

“Of course,” she commented to me, “this distressed him.  He was quite overcome.  I have told you my opinion that he is a man of deep feeling—­it is impossible to doubt it.  You should have seen his face.  He positively reeled.  He leaned against the wall of the terrace.  Their friendship must have been the very brotherhood of souls!  I was grateful to him for that emotion, which made me feel less ashamed of my own lack of self-control.  Of course I had regained the power of speech at once, almost.  All this lasted not more than a few seconds.  ‘I am his sister,’ I said.  ‘Maybe you have heard of me.’”