when the circumstances of this
wait had been more painful than now. For, in the early half of the
winter, the ingenuous Nathalie had made some little havoc with the
usually well-ordered mind and heart of Monsieur de Windt. But from the
first Ivan had confided in his friend. And that friend was an honorable
man. As the days of poor Ivan's exile passed, and his misery had grown,
de Windt found his sympathy gradually overcoming his sentiment.
Moreover, Nathalie's drooping young face, familiar to him through many
balls and receptions, showed the mind of the young girl too plainly for
mistake. In so far as in her lay, she returned her cousin's love. By
December, Captain de Windt had set himself seriously to subdue his
little _penchant_; and such was his success that, as he sat waiting here
to-night, his heart was sincerely with Ivan. Yet it was not so
unremarkable that when, at a little before eleven, he watched a sleigh
pull up at the door below and saw Ivan alight from it, Monsieur de Windt
should be glad of the three flights of stairs that would assure perfect
steadiness in the voice that must cry out the heartiest of
congratulations.

Even to de Windt, however, Ivan was a long time ascending those stairs.
Was this the manner of a man triumphant? Was the step, now audible--that
heavy, dragging step,--the pace of a happy man? De Windt's heart beat
slower. His face grew grave. And then,--the door opened; and Ivan came
into the room.

He walked very slowly to a sofa in the corner, and removed his outer
wrappings, piece by piece, flinging them down on floor or furniture.
Then he turned and came back to the hot porcelain stove by which de
Windt had been sitting, dropped into a chair, drooped his head for a
moment to his breast, but finally lifted his face and looked squarely at
his friend. Good Heaven!--Could calf-love do that to a boyish face?--Was
it really Ivan, this gray-hued, inexpressibly weary man, with the dull,
expressionless eyes, and the mouth drawn into so ugly a
line?--Calf-love?--Impossible!

The oppressive silence grew heavier and more heavy. Ivan continued to
stare; but it was into vacancy now. He was greatly startled when he felt
a hand touch his shoulder: a hand whose gentleness bespoke a sympathy
that was very deep. De Windt had certainly not foreseen the effect of
his involuntary act. At the gesture, Ivan started, as if he had been
shot. Then he drew himself away, violently, and sprang to his feet,
turn