Time and restored health had made her almost her old self again, capable once more of calm, wide views of life, and less given to fits of bitter despondency, though these indeed still came upon her at times. Now, taking blame to herself for his coldness, she tried back in her mind for cause given, and failed to find it in spite of most rigorous searching. She knew him too well to believe him capable of ill-feeling for her past offences; and had she not shown him by subsequent gracious meekness that her declensions came not of herself, but of her circumstances? Finally, unaware of the fundamental upheaval wrought in him by Barenin's news, she said to herself that the complexities of their position were trying them both too hardly, and that the time had come for a change. Yet where to go and what to do? Any move might be the wrong one and deprive her of the news for which she was waiting. She could not, like Anna Roskova, find another lodging. For where should Serge Palma's wife live except with Serge Palma? And as to getting away, the risks and difficulties would be enormous. The nightmare horrors of the convoys and rest-houses still overwhelmed her at times, and, deep in heart, unacknowledged, not to be thought about, but still there, was a deep, comforting sense of peace and security in Pavlof's guardianship, and a very great disinclination to lose it. She was at her wits' end, and sorely troubled in her mind as to what course to pursue. Paul had not dared to tell her of Barenin's presence at Kara. She would inevitably ask if he brought any news, and then he must disclose the whole matter. Meanwhile he gripped his heart and treated her with the gravest courtesy. He provided for her comfort in every way within the compass of his power and the limited possibilities of Kara. But, by reason of the fire that was in him, he bore himself coldly perforce, hard as it was to do so, lest the slightest divergence from his narrow line should lead him astray into the open country of his heart's desire, and show her that which he was doing his best to keep from her. And she? Trust her, she knew, somewhat at all events, of that which was in him, in spite of all his iciness and aloofness. And perhaps she feared somewhat for herself, and perhaps she feared somewhat for him. But always, except at those rarer and rarer intervals when her heart got twisted awry with the long strain of waiting, she thought of him warmly and gratefully. Yet, now and again, after sitting in long silence before the stove of a night, the falseness and awkwardness of their position would spur her to speech, though the result was always the same. And-- "How much longer are we to go on in this way?" she would jerk out. "What would you do, Hope Ivanovna?" "Oh, I do not know, but I feel that I ought to be going." "Where would you go?" At which she would shake her head hopelessly. "I do not know, but I feel myself a burden to you."