.. all is well with them--but they feel
uncomfortable."

Nejdanov gave a forced smile.

"You know very well, Mariana, that we are not young in that sense."

Mariana rose from her chair and stood before him.

"That depends on yourself."

"How?"

"Aliosha, you know, dear, that when you tell me, as a man of honour...
and I will believe you because I know you are honourable; when you tell
me that you love me with that love... the love that gives one person the
right over another's life, when you tell me that--I am yours."

Nejdanov blushed and turned away a little.

"When I tell you that...

"Yes, then! But you see, Aliosha, you don't say that to me now... Oh
yes, Aliosha, you are truly an honourable man. Enough of this! Let us
talk of more serious things."

"But I do love you, Mariana!"

"I don't doubt that... and shall wait. But there, I have not quite
finished arranging your writing table. Here is something wrapped up,
something hard."

Nejdanov sprang up from his chair.

"Don't touch that, Mariana... Leave it alone, please!"

Mariana looked at him over her shoulder and raised her eyebrows in
amazement.

Is it a mystery? A secret? Have you a secret?

"Yes... yes..." Nejdanov stammered out, and added by way of explanation,
"it's a portrait."

The word escaped him unawares. The packet Mariana held in her hand was
her own portrait, which Markelov had given Nejdanov.

"A portrait?" she drawled out. "Is it a woman's?"

She handed him the packet, which he took so clumsily that it slipped out
of his hand and fell open.

"Why... it's my portrait!" Mariana exclaimed quickly. "I suppose I may
look at my own portrait." She took it out of Nejdanov's hand.

"Did you do it?"

"No... I didn't."

"Who then? Markelov?"

"Yes, you've guessed right."

"Then how did it come to be in your possession?"

"He gave it to me."

"When?"

Nejdanov told her when and under what circumstances. While he was
speaking Mariana glanced from him to the portrait. The same thought
flashed across both their minds. "If HE were in this room, then HE
would have the right to demand..." But neither Mariana nor Nejdanov gave
expression to this thought in words, perhaps because each was conscious
what was in the other's mind.

Mariana quietly wrapped the portrait up again in its paper and put it on
the table.

"What a good man he is!" she murmured. "I wonder where he is now?"

"Why, at home of course. Tomorrow or the day af