n infinite age. It was ridiculous that Vera
should fall in love--Vera so stately and stern and removed from passion.
Those days were over for Vera, and, with her strong sense of duty and
the fitness of things, she would realise that. Moreover Nina could not
believe that Lawrence cared for Vera. Vera was not the figure to be
loved in that way. Vera's romance had been with Markovitch years and
years ago, and now, whenever Nina looked at Markovitch, it made it at
once impossible to imagine Vera in any new romantic situation.

Then had come the night of the birthday party, and suspicion had at once
flamed up again. She was torn that night and for days afterwards with a
raging jealousy.

She hated Vera, she hated Lawrence, she hated herself. Then again her
mood had changed. It was, after all, natural that he should have gone to
protect Vera; she was his hostess; he was English, and did not know how
trivial a Russian scene of temper was. He had meant nothing, and poor
Vera, touched that at her matronly age any one should show her
attention, had looked at him gratefully.

That was all. She loved Vera; she would not hurt her with such
ridiculous suspicions, and, on that Friday evening when Semyonov had
come to see me, she had been her old self again, behaving to Vera with
all the tenderness and charm and affection that were her most delightful
gifts.

On this Sunday morning she was reassured; she was gay and happy and
pleased with the whole world. The excitement of the disturbances of the
last two days provided an emotional background, not too thrilling to be
painful, because, after all, these riots would, as usual, come to
nothing, but it was pleasant to feel that the world was buzzing, and
that without paying a penny one might see a real cinematograph show
simply by walking down the Nevski.

I do not know, of course, what exactly happened that morning until
Semyonov came in, but I can see the Markovitch family, like ten thousand
other Petrograd families, assembling somewhere about eleven o'clock
round the Samovar, all in various stages of undress, all sleepy and
pale-faced, and a little befogged, as all good Russians are when,
through the exigencies of sleep, they've been compelled to allow their
ideas to escape from them for a considerable period. They discussed, of
course, the disturbances, and I can imagine Markovitch portentously
announcing that "It was all over, he had the best of reasons-for
knowing...."

As he