oung and naive, as though she had put her hair up
just for the evening because there was to be a party. It was explained
that Markovitch was working but would be present at supper. Vera was
quiet, but looked happier, I thought, than I had seen her for a long
time. Bohun was looking after her, and Lawrence was with Nina. I sat
behind the four of them, in the back of the little box, like a presiding
Benevolence.

Mostly I thought of how lovely Vera was to-night, and why it was, too,
that more people did not care for her. I knew that she was not popular,
that she was considered proud and reserved and cold. As she sat there
now, motionless, her hands on her lap, her whole being seemed to me to
radiate goodness and gentleness and a loving heart. I knew that she
could be impatient with stupid people, and irritated by sentimentality,
and infuriated by meanness and cruelty, but the whole size and grandeur
of her nobility seemed to me to shine all about her and set her apart
from the rest of human beings. She was not a woman whom I ever could
have loved--she had not the weaknesses and naiveties and appealing
helplessness that drew love from one's heart. Nor could I have ever
dared to face the depth and splendour of the passion that there was in
her--I was not built on that heroic scale. God forgive me if, as I
watched them, I felt a sudden glow of almost eager triumph at the
thought of Lawrence as her lover! I checked it. My heart was suddenly
heavy.

Such a development could only mean tragedy, and I knew it. I had even
sworn to Semyonov that I would prevent it. I looked at them and felt my
helpless weakness. Who was I to prevent anything? And who was there now,
in the whole world, who would be guided by my opinion? They might have
me as a confidant because they trusted me, but after that... no, I had
no illusions. I was pushed off the edge of the world, hanging on still
with one quivering hand--soon my grip would loosen--and, God help me, I
did not want to go.

Nina turned back to me and, with a little excited clap of her hands,
drew my attention to the gallant Madame Gineselli, who, although by no
means a chicken, arrayed in silver tights and a large black picture-hat,
stood on one foot on the back of her white horse and bowed to the
already hysterical gallery. Mr. Gineselli cracked his whip, and the
white horse ambled along and the sawdust flew up into our eyes, and
Madame bent her knees first in and then out, and the bour