She smiled at him, quite gay and playful now, with a trace of coyness in her manner. She seemed amused at him because he had not expected her to return. “Would you feel sad if I never came back? Would you miss me so much?” “Of course I would miss you,” he replied, not sure what else would be safe to say. He would have preferred some light pleasantry which would answer her more in keeping with her mood, but he was afraid that she might resent gayety on his part, even though she affected it herself. “Then I may presume to say that I am the favorite samovar girl of the American.” “And it would not be presumption at all,” he said. He moved and closed the door after her, while she busied herself at the table with the samovar. He had a mind for an instant to lock the door and to demand that she give an explanation of herself and her reason for coming to him in the guise of a servant. But he smiled at his own Russianism—his impulse to do the dramatic thing. He decided to draw her out in a more careful manner. One thing he was determined upon—to settle, as far as possible, her motives in playing servant. “How long since you have seen Zorogoff?” he asked, going close to her and standing so that the light from the window fell across her face. “I? Why, not so long ago.” She looked at him with curiosity as to why he had asked the question. “Have you seen him since you were here?” She laughed lightly. “If I had, it is quite likely that I would not have come back.” “Then I’m glad you did not see the Ataman. And please don’t see him, if it is going to mean that you will come no more.” “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what you mean—but it appears that there is an implied compliment. Do you mean it as a compliment?” “What other things could I mean?” “You might mean many things.” She shrank away from him now the least bit, as if she distrusted him. Peter sat down in the chair at the end of the table. “And what might I mean, for one thing?” he asked with a quick glance at her. “You—you might mean—that you are suspicious of me, and that would make me feel sad.” She stood, as if half intending to flee from the room, and observing him in wonderment. “Suspicious! Why should you be under suspicion?” “Everybody is under suspicion—no one trusts another here,” she replied. “No doubt you have suspicions of me—because I speak Russian,” he countered. “I am not sure of you,” she said frankly. “What have I but your coat to prove that you are an American officer?” “You have no more than I have to prove that you are a samovar girl. Oh, come now! Let us not play with words! What did Zorogoff say when he learned that the American officer speaks good Russian?” She straightened up suddenly and her body seemed to grow rigid. He heard the hiss of her breath, and then an hysterical laugh came gurgling from her lips. “So that is it!” she cried. “You think I am a spy for Zorogoff!”