It was the knowledge--the partial knowledge--of what was in her that made Paul Pavlof's hand tremble as he took the cup of tea she handed him. For a woman animated by feelings so mighty as those which moved and restrained Hope Arskaïa was capable of anything. The one thing that troubled him was the doubt whether she was capable of condescending to so small a thing as the love of Paul Pavlof--to him the mightiest thing on earth. Her greeting was full of hearty fellowship, nevertheless the first quick glance she had given him had in it something of apprehension. She knew what he had come for, and she feared the result of the interview--for him--and--well, yes, for herself as well. For they had been good comrades for many years, and friendship which aspires to more does not readily content itself with less. "Any callers, Masha?" she asked, as she drank her tea. "Is not this one enough, Hope Ivanovna?" said the old woman diplomatically, with a friendly nod at Pavlof, and hastened out of the way of further questioning. "Masha bullies me," said Hope, with a smile. "She is a good old soul. You would have been very lonely without her.... Sometime she will die, and then, Hope Ivanovna, you will be more lonely still, unless--unless you have some one to take care of you. I have come to-day to ask you to let me be that one. My heart has been yours to trample on since the first time I looked into your eyes. You have known it." Yes, she had known it, she had known it only too well. And she had looked with foreboding to this moment, for many a day, as the possible end to their friendship. Under other skies, under other circumstances, it might have been. But as things were--the ordinary joys of wifehood, home, motherhood, were not for Hope Arskaïa. Rightly or wrongly, her heart was set on other things, and for those other things she was prepared to sacrifice all that womankind holds most dear. Compared with those other things she held herself of very small account. That was the view he had feared she would take. Nay, he knew instantly, even as he spoke, that he had known it all along, and he knew her too well to hope to move her by any passionate pleading. Her response would have been instant, if response had been possible. One glance from the great dark eyes would have carried his soul up into heaven. But the eloquent eyes, which would have told him so much, remained downcast, and he saw only the shadow of the long lashes on the white cheek. He rose instantly. "Forgive me, Hope," he said, as quietly as though his life's hopes had not in the space of a moment crumbled into a heap of burnt-out ashes. "Paul!" she said, and raised a detaining hand, and there was that in her tone--something of pleading and of pity both for herself and for him--which made him glance quickly at her from under his pinched brows.