Although I assured her how greatly I appreciated the honour she had done me by calling, I was no means pleased at her visit. Though but twenty-four years of age, she had already been a widow two years. At twenty, in order to secure a set of diamonds and a position, she had bound herself to an aged merchant king, who, two years later, died suddenly of heart disease. After a brief period of mourning she became one of the leaders of fashion in the Russian capital, and the brilliant entertainments she gave at her great house in the Nevski were attended by the smartest set. At her _salon_ I was always a welcome guest, and it was the remembrance of certain mild flirtations that now caused me some little uneasiness. “My rooms are certainly rather untidy,” I said mechanically. “But I am preparing to start on a long journey.” “To where?” “To Siberia.” “_Dieu!_ Are you going there voluntarily?” she inquired, shuddering. “Yes.” “For what reason?” “To seek a dear friend.” “A woman, I presume?” she asked, with an ill-disguised sneer. “Yes, Madame, it is a woman.” “And her name is Mariána Néstoff, eh?” she asked slowly, watching my face. “You are right. But how did you know?” “I heard of her arrest. It is the common talk of Petersburg. The police made a raid at one of the meetings, and captured twenty of our comrades. Some explosives were found in Mariána’s room, and she has been sent to Sredne Kolymsk.” “My God!” I cried. “Why, that is beyond the Arctic Circle—the worst region in all Siberia!” She nodded, sighing slightly. “It must indeed be a terrible blow to you,” she said. “I—I love her,” I said hoarsely. “Yes, yes, I understand. But do not take it to heart so much, Anton,” she urged. “Mariána has been unfortunate; but for what reason should you sacrifice your own liberty? You are known by the police as a Nihilist; therefore, if you go to Siberia, you are almost certain to be detained there. Besides, even if you found her, you would be unable to secure her liberty.” “No; I must do my best,” I replied. “Do not run such an unnecessary risk,” she exclaimed, rising suddenly, and coming behind my chair in an endeavour to console me. “You remember that once you told me you cared for me?” “What—what do you mean?” I cried wildly. “I mean—I mean that I love you, Anton!” “Love me!” I stammered, in amazement. “Yes,” she said earnestly. “You know how passionately I have loved you, yet this is the first time I have admitted it. Surely you are not blind? Since I first saw you I have thought of no other man. It is you—you only—that I care for.” “But I——” “Say the word,” she implored. “Tell me that you will cast aside that pink-and-white, ill-bred doll, whose prettiness is already fading, and I, Agraféna Teréshkevna, am ready to become your wife as soon as the marriage formalities can be arranged.” I shook my head. “Think!” she urged. “I have wealth, position, and—and men say I have beauty. I am at your feet. See...!”