where, on the table, Piotr had placed
a bottle of sherry, some glasses, and a plate of biscuits. Before these
the two seated themselves; and, as the first glow of the wine began to
course through them, they fell into a low-voiced conversation; for it
was a period of strain so great that any possibility of forgetfulness
was grasped, eagerly. Of Sophia, however, neither could speak; and their
thoughts fell naturally upon that which was dearest to her: Ivan: the
nephew to whom the uncle was almost a complete stranger. And it was to
this man whom for years he had hated so roundly, that Michael revealed,
for the only time in his life, his feeling for the boy whom he had so
tardily and slightly acknowledged.

"You--haven't told him, I understand?" Blashkov began, in a low tone.

"Not yet. If--if she comes out--he may see her. The anxiety will be less
for him.--She--she's his whole life, here."

"And he hers, I imagine?"

"It's true.--I--I haven't counted with either of them.--I never tried."

This was all. The long, almost unbearable pause that followed was broken
by a commonplace remark, and the conversation kept in that vein by
mutual consent. For, when the inner life is throbbing fast and strong,
intimate expression becomes impossible. And above these two men,
chatting about the trivial things of their existence, hung a black
shadow of dread: a strain of waiting which, minute by minute, grew more
tense.

An hour had passed, and the ears of both were strained for the faintest
sound in the corridor, when there came an unhoped-for break. Less than
forty-eight hours after the first news had reached her in Petersburg,
Caroline Dravikine entered the Gregoriev house in Moscow. Piotr, his
face alight with relief, showed her into the room where brother and
brother-in-law sat together. There she flung off her wraps, commanded
tea, and exerted all her power towards distracting the thoughts of those
two men who showed not half her courage in the face of a calamity which
could touch neither of them as it must touch her, who had kept the one
greatly unselfish affection of her life for the sister now lying at the
point of death above her.

A second hour slipped round, and the momentary relief of Caroline's
arrival passed. The darkening room had grown silent again, and the sense
of oppression was becoming unendurable to the three of them, when one of
the nurses slipped into the room to say:

"The Princess Gregoriev is in her bed.