She never did--she kept him from her. Kind to him, perhaps, but never allowing him another moment's intimacy. He had almost the air, it seemed to me, of patiently waiting for the moment when she should need him, the air too of a man who was sure, in his heart, that that moment would come. And the other thing that stiffened him was his hatred for Semyonov. Hatred may seem too fierce a word for the emotion of any one as mild and gentle as Trenchard--and yet hatred at this time it was. He seemed no longer afraid of Semyonov and there was something about him now which surprised the other man. Through all those first days at Mittoevo, when we seemed for a moment almost to have slipped out of the war and to be leading the smaller more quarrelsome life of earlier days, Trenchard was occupied with only one question--"What was he feeling about Semyonov?"--"I felt as though I could stand anything if only she didn't love him. Since that awful night of the Retreat I had resigned myself to losing her; any one should marry her who would make her happy--but he--never! But it was the indecision that I could not bear. I didn't know--I couldn't tell, what she felt." The indecision was not to last much longer. One evening, when we had been at Mittoevo about a week, he was at the Cross watching the sun, like a crimson flower, sink behind the dim grey forest. The Nestor, in the evening mist, was a golden shadow under the hill. This beauty made him melancholy. He was wishing passionately, as he stood there, for work, hard, dangerous, gripping work. He did not know that that was to be the last idle minute of his life. Hearing a step on the path he turned round to find Semyonov at his side. "Lovely view, isn't it?" said Semyonov, watching him. "Lovely," answered Trenchard. Semyonov sat down on the little stone seat beneath the Cross and looked up at his rival. Trenchard looked down at him, hating his square, stolid composure, his thick thighs, his fair beard, his ironical eyes. "You're a _beastly_ man!" he thought. "How long are you going to be with us, do you think?" asked Semyonov. "Don't know--depends on so many things." "Why don't you go back to England? They want soldiers." "Wouldn't pass my eyesight." "When are they going to begin doing something on the other Front, do you think?" "When they're ready, I suppose." "They're very slow. Where's all your army we heard so much about?" "There's a big army going to be ready soon." "Yes, but we were told things would begin in May. It's only the Germans who've begun." "I don't know; I've seen no English papers for some weeks." There was a pause. Semyonov smiled, stood up, looked into Trenchard's eyes. "I must go to England," he said slowly, "after the war. Marie Ivanovna and I will go, I hope, together. She told me to-day that that is one of the things that she hopes we will do together--later on." Trenchard returned Semyonov's gaze. After a moment he said: