nity. Almost naked, they wandered round the arena,
mountains of flesh glistening in the electric light. A little man, all
puffed up like a poulter pigeon, then advanced into the middle of the
arena, and was greeted with wild applause from the gallery. To this he
bowed and then announced in a terrific voice, "Gentlemen, you are about
to see some of the most magnificent wrestling in the world. Allow me to
introduce to you the combatants." He then shouted out the names: "Ivan
Strogoff of Kiev--Paul Rosing of Odessa--Jacob Smyerioff of
Petrograd--John Meriss from Africa (this the most hideous of
negroes)--Karl Tubiloff of Helsingfors...." and so on. The gentlemen
named smirked and bowed. They all marched off, and then, in a moment,
one couple returned, shook hands, and, under the breathless attention
of the whole house, began to wrestle.

They did not, however, command my attention. I could think of nothing
but the little crushed figure next to me. I stole a look at her and saw
that a large tear was hanging on one eyelash ready to fall. I looked
hurriedly away. Poor child! And her birthday! I cursed Lawrence for his
clumsiness. What did it matter if she had put her hand on his knee? He
ought to have taken it and patted it. But it was more than likely, as I
knew very well, that he had never even noticed her action. He was
marvellously unaware of all kinds of things, and it was only too
possible that Nina scarcely existed for him. I longed to comfort her,
and I did then a foolish thing. I put out my hand and let it rest for a
moment on her dress.

Instantly she moved away with a sharp little gesture.

Five minutes later I heard a little whisper: "Durdles, it's so hot
here--and I hate these naked men. Shall we go? Ask Vera--"

The first bout had just come to an end. The little man with the swelling
chest was alone, strutting up and down, and answering questions hurled
at him from the gallery.

"Uncle Vanya, where's Michael of Odessa?"

"Ah, he's a soldier in the army now."

"Uncle Vanya... Uncle Vanya... Uncle Vanya..."

"Well, well, what is it?"

"Why isn't _Chornaya Maska_, wrestling to-night?"

"Ah, he's busy."

"What's he busy with?"

"Never mind, he's busy."

"What's he busy with?... Uncle Vanya... Uncle Vanya..."

"_Shto?_"

"Isn't it true that Michael's dead now?"

"So they say."

"Is it true?"

"Uncle Vanya... Uncle Vanya...."

The message had passed along that Nina was tired and wanted to go.