g and yet hostile. It was
as though Andrey Vassilievitch had said: "I know you are thinking of
her. Leave her to me," and Nikitin had replied: "My poor friend. What
can you do?... I do as I please."

I know at least that I saw Andrey Vassilievitch frown, make as though
he would get up and leave the room, then think better of it, and sink
back into his chair.

I remember that just at that moment Trenchard entered. He joined us
and sat on the sofa near Nikitin without speaking, staring in front of
him like the rest of us. His face was tired and old, his cheeks
hollow.

I waited and the silence began to get on my nerves. Then there came an
interruption. The door opened quite silently: we all turned our eyes
towards it without moving our heads. In the doorway stood Semyonov.

We were startled as though by a ghost. I remember that Andrey
Vassilievitch jumped to his feet, crying. Trenchard never moved.
Semyonov with his usual stolid self-possession came towards us,
greeted us, then turning to me said:

"I've come to take your place, Ivan Andreievitch."

"My place?" I stammered.

"Yes. You're wanted there. You're to return at once in the
_britchka_.... In half an hour, if you don't mind."

"And you'll stay?"

"And I'll stay."

No one else said anything. I remember that I had some half-intention
of protesting, of begging to be allowed to remain. But I was no match
for Semyonov. I could fancy the futility of my saying: "But really,
Alexei Petrovitch, we don't want you here. It's much better to leave
me. You'll upset them all. It's a nervous place, this." I said
nothing, except: "All right. I'll go." He watched me. He watched us
all. I fancy that he smiled.

Outside I had a desperate absurd thought that I would return and ask
him to be kind to Trenchard. As I turned away some one seemed to
whisper in my ear:

"He's come, you know, to find Marie Ivanovna."

CHAPTER IV

FOUR?

Before I give the extracts from Trenchard's diary that follow I would
like to say that I do not believe that Trenchard had any thought
whatever, as he wrote, of publication. He says quite clearly that he
wrote simply for his own satisfaction and later interest. At the same
time I am convinced that he would not now object to their publication.
If he had been here he would, I know, have supported my intention. The
diary lies before me, here on my table, written in two yellow,
stiff-covered manuscript books without lines. They are w