ld streamed away in great waves of light from the sun. The
long line of buildings and towers on the farther side was jet-black; the
masts of the ships clustering against the Quay were touched at their
tips with bright gold. It was all utterly still, not a sound nor a
movement anywhere; only one figure, that of a woman, was coming slowly
towards me. I felt, as one always does at the beginning of a Russian
spring, a strange sense of expectation. Spring in Russia is so sudden
and so swift that it gives an overwhelming impression of a powerful
organising Power behind it. Suddenly the shutters are pulled back and
the sun floods the world! Upon this afternoon one could feel the urgent
business of preparation pushing forward, arrogantly, ruthlessly. I don't
think that I had ever before realised the power of the Neva at such
close quarters. I was almost ashamed at the contrast of its struggle
with my own feebleness.

I saw then that the figure coming towards me was Nina.

III

As she came nearer I saw that she was intensely preoccupied. She was
looking straight in front of her but seeing nothing. It was only when
she was quite close to me that I saw that she was crying. She was making
no sound. Her mouth was closed; the tears were slowly, helplessly,
rolling down her cheeks.

She was very near to me indeed before she saw me; then she looked at me
closely before she recognised me. When she saw that it was I, she
stopped, fumbled for her handkerchief, which she found, wiped her eyes,
then turned away from me and looked out over the river.

"Nina, dear," I said, "what's the matter?"

She didn't answer; at length she turned round and said:

"You've been ill again, haven't you?"

One cheek had a dirty tear-stain on it, which made her inexpressibly
young and pathetic and helpless.

"Yes," I said, "I have."

She caught her breath, put out her hand, and touched my arm.

"Oh, you _do_ look ill!... Vera went to ask, and there was a
rough-looking man there who said that no one could see you, but that you
were all right.... One of us ought to have forced a way in--M. Bohun
wanted to--but we've all been thinking of ourselves."

"What's the matter, Nina?" I asked. "You've been crying."

"Nothing's the matter. I'm all right."

"No, you're not. You ought to tell me. You trusted me once."

"I don't trust any one," she answered fiercely. "Especially not
Englishmen."

"What's the matter?" I asked again.

"Nothing.... We'