! Mon
nomme de guerre is Tamara but just so--Anastasia Nikolaevna. It's all
the same--call me even Tamara ... I am more used to it..."

"Tamara! ... That is so beautiful! ... So now, Mile. Tamara, perhaps
you will not refuse to breakfast with me? Perhaps Ryazanov will also do
so with us..."

"I have no time, forgive me."

"That's a great pity! ... I hope, some other time ... But, perhaps you
smoke," and she moved toward her a gold case, adorned with an enormous
letter E out of the same emeralds she adored.

Ryazanov came very soon.

Tamara, who had not examined him properly on that evening, was struck
by his appearance. Tall of stature, almost of an athletic build, with a
broad brow, like Beethoven's, tangled with artistically negligent
black, grizzled hair; with the large fleshy mouth of the passionate
orator; with clear, expressive, clever, mocking eyes--he had such an
appearance as catches one's eyes among thousands--the appearance of a
vanquisher of souls and a conqueror of hearts; deeply ambitious, not
yet oversated with life; still fiery in love and never retreating
before a beautiful indiscretion ... "If fate had not broken me up so,"
reflected Tamara, watching his movements with enjoyment, "then here's a
man to whom I'd throw my life; jestingly, with delight, with a smile,
as a plucked rose is thrown to the beloved..."

Ryazanov kissed Rovinskaya's hand, then with unconstrained simplicity
exchanged greetings with Tamara and said:

"We are acquainted even from that mad evening, when you dumbfounded all
of us with your knowledge of the French language, and when you spoke.
That which you said was, between us, paradoxical; but then, how it was
said! ... To this day I remember the tone of your voice, so warm,
expressive ... And so, Ellena Victorovna," he turned to Rovinskaya
again, sitting down on a small, low chair without a back, "in what can
I be of use to you? I am at your disposal."

Rovinskaya, with a languid air, again applied the tips of her fingers
to her temples.

"Ah, really, I am so upset, my dear Ryazanov," said she, intentionally
extinguishing the sparkle of her magnificent eyes, "and then, my
miserable head ... May I trouble you to pass me the pyramidon what-not
from that table ... Let Mile. Tamara tell you everything ... I can not,
I am not able to ... This is so horrible! ..."

Tamara briefly, lucidly, narrated to Ryazanov all the sad history of
Jennka's death; recalled also about the ca