We
all moved out through the passage and into the cold fresh air.

"It was quite time," said Vera. "I was going to suggest it myself."

"I hope you liked it," said Lawrence politely to Nina.

"No, I hated it," she answered furiously, and turned her back on him.

It could not be said that the birthday party was promising very well.

XXII

And yet for the first half-hour it really seemed that it would "go" very
well indeed. It had been agreed that it was to be absolutely a "family"
party, and Uncle Ivan, Semyonov, and Boris Grogoff were the only
additions to our number. Markovitch was there of course, and I saw at
once that he was eager to be agreeable and to be the best possible host.
As I had often noticed before, there was something pathetic about
Markovitch when he wished to be agreeable. He had neither the figure nor
the presence with which to be fascinating, and he did not know in the
least how to bring out his best points.

Especially when he tried, as he was sometimes ill-advised enough to do,
to flirt with young girls, he was a dismal failure. He was intended, by
nature, to be mysterious and malevolent, and had he only had a
malevolent spirit there would have been no tragedy--but in the confused
welter that he called his soul, malevolence was the least of the
elements, and other things--love, sympathy, twisted self-pity, ambition,
courage, and cowardice--drowned it. He was on his best behaviour
to-night, and over the points of his high white collar his peaked, ugly,
anxious face peered, appealing to the Fates for generosity.

But the Fates despise those who appeal.

I very soon saw that he was on excellent terms with Semyonov, and this
could only be, I was sure, because Semyonov had been flattering him.
Very soon I learnt the truth. I was standing near the table, watching
the company, when I found Markovitch at my side.

"Very glad you've come, Ivan Andreievitch," he said. "I've been meaning
to come and see you, only I've been too busy."

"How's the ink getting along?" I asked him.

"Oh, the ink!" He brushed my words scornfully aside. "No, that's
nothing. We must postpone that to a more propitious time.
Meanwhile--meanwhile, Ivan Andreievitch, I've hit it at last!"

"What is it this time?" I asked.

He could hardly speak for his excitement. "It's wood--the bark--the bark
of the tree, you know--a new kind of fibre for cloth. If I hadn't got to
look after these people here, I'd take you and sho