you and
I think that you have already understood it, that I came to Tumen
with orders to see a certain Syvorotka. I had to be with him, use his
house, use his protection, use his connections. I did not know who
this Syvorotka was.

A cave man? An ex-soldier? A sick man? A fat butcher? A sentimental,
but dirty druggist? Of all the men in the world,--and while coming
here I imagined all possible types,--that I should have met you, Alex!
You have always meant so much to me. I have always liked you. When I
saw you last in Petrograd I tried to get you into my affairs. Why? I
don't know. You have no ambitions, you have no character,--nothing.
And still, I tried to get you, only to be with you. You refused--for
you never cared: perhaps once in Marseilles, when you wanted to
kiss me (you see I did not forget)--and even at that time you were
drunk.... And here in Tumen--you were the man, with whom as they told
me, I had to go as far as was necessary to get his good services...."

"Strange life, this one of mine," she ended her remark and again
turned to look into the flames.

"Lucie, you never told me you cared, I thought you were for your own
affairs much more than for anything else; now I see it in a different
light."

"You do? It _is late_. I am going. I am leaving you--this time for
good. A week--or so, and I am far away from here, from you--with all
of your good and bad qualities. The time in which we live--does not
allow any speculations. One must get what he sees."

What do you mean by 'going away'?"

"Just what I say. I received orders to move to another place. No,
I cannot tell you. That's all. You, and this little house, and some
hopes I had here,--all, all, must be forgotten. Other people, and
other scenery. A radical change again. Heavens knows how soon I can
forget this little white cold town...."

"Yes," she continued, looking at me, "yes, this cold town, with you;
and you--with your double-crossings, with your reports on me, with
your bad behavior, with your treason. Alex--love is a strange thing.
I don't mind it at all! You never knew it. You never loved your poor
Maroossia: she was your comfort--that's all. You never thought of
Lucie de Clive as such: for you--she was a little girl that possibly
might have been in your way, but you let her stay because she
comforted you. Now--she is going, and very likely you won't see her
any more. In your life--she was a page of a book; now you've read
it!..."

She