rmany goes, the deeper will that Idea penetrate into her
heart. At the end she will die of it, and a new Germany will be born
into a new world.... I tell you I am an evil man, but I believe in God
and in the righteousness of God."

What do I remember after those words of Rozanov? It was like a voice
speaking to me across a great gulf of waters--but that voice was honest.
I do not know what happened after his speech. I think there was a lot of
talk. I cannot remember.

Only just before I was going I was near Nina for a moment.

She looked up at me just as she used to do.

"Durdles--is Vera all right?"

"She's miserable, Nina, because you're not there. Come back to us."

But she shook her head.

"No, no, I can't. Give her my--" Then she stopped. "No, tell her
nothing."

"Can I tell her you're happy?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm all right," she answered roughly, turning away from me.

X

But the adventures of that Easter Monday night were not yet over. I had
walked away with Bohun; he was very silent, depressed, poor boy, and shy
with the reaction of his outburst.

"I made the most awful fool of myself," he said.

"No, you didn't," I answered.

"The trouble of it is," he said slowly, "that neither you nor I see the
humorous side of it all strongly enough. We take it too seriously. It's
got a funny side all right."

"Maybe you're right," I said. "But you must remember that the Markovitch
situation isn't exactly funny just now--and we're both in the middle of
it. Oh! if only I could find Nina back home and Semyonov away, I believe
the strain would lift. But I'm frightened that something's going to
happen. I've grown very fond of these people, you know, Bohun--Vera and
Nina and Nicholas. Isn't it odd how one gets to love Russians--more than
one's own people? The more stupid things they do the more you love
them--whereas with one's own people it's quite the other way. Oh, I do
_want_ Vera and Nina and Nicholas to be happy!"

"Isn't the town queer to-night?" said Bohun, suddenly stopping. (We were
just at the entrance to the Mariensky Square.)

"Yes," I said. "I think these days between the thaw and the white nights
are in some ways the strangest of all. There seems to be so much going
on that one can't quite see."

"Yes--over there--at the other end of the Square--there's a kind of
mist--a sort of water-mist. It comes from the Canal."

"And do you see a figure like an old bent man with a red lantern? Do you