Old Masha had followed her mistress into the new life. She received him with all the old friendly favour which would have put him in Palma's place if the turning of the wheel had rested with her. "I will tell her you are here, Paul Ivanuitch," said Masha, scanning his face, woman-like, for sign of his feeling, but lingering still. "I am going away to Moscow, Marya. I have come to say goodbye." "Ach!" said old Masha knowingly, and stood looking at him. "Tell me, Marya. Is she happy?" "Yes, she is happy, Paul Ivanuitch," and added quickly, "but you know she is not like others. It is not of herself she thinks. It is a terrible great change," she said, waving her simple old hands at the sumptuous appointments of the room. "I am almost afraid to speak aloud at times, it is all so fine. But it doesn't trouble her one bit, and it is not that she cares for. It seems to me sometimes that we have half the poor people of the city on our hands, and there are fresh ones every day." "And Palma is good to--to you, Marya?" he asked, with an almost imperceptible quiver of the lip, which old Marya did not fail to catch, though her eyes were not as strong as they were once. She knew so well all that lay behind it. "He is very good, Paul Ivanuitch. He is a bigger man than I thought. He is very generous. My God! how the money goes! I am afraid in the night sometimes that it will come to an end, but there is always plenty next day. I did not know any one had so much money." "I will send you my address in Moscow, Marya. If ever I can do anything for--for you--or for her, will you promise to let me know?" "Surely. It is good to know one has a friend to turn to. Now sit down and I will tell her you are here." He did not sit down, but stood looking at the big oil paintings on the wall--Prince Peter, and Serge's mother, and Serge himself when he was a small boy. And the rich hangings to the windows and doors, and the carved table and buffet and chairs, stole in upon his senses without his knowingly looking at them, though he remembered them all afterwards, because they were the things she lived among. And then the door opened, and he was face to face with Hope herself. She was looking very well, very bright and cheerful, more richly dressed than he had ever seen her, more beautiful than ever. His face was thinner even than it used to be, and his deep eyes deeper, and keener, and more ardent, she thought, but just the same straight, honest eyes that always met your own frankly and squarely, and held no equivocations. Perhaps there was something of a shadow in them now, but it might be only that they looked deeper in their settings than before. In truth there was in them the shadow of a slight reserve to which she had not been accustomed. For in spite of himself he felt a touch of resentment at her cheerfulness, and a touch of anger with himself for so feeling. "You are going away, Paul Ivanuitch?" said Hope, when she had greeted him.