The joy which had come into his face at first glance at her was dissipated by his realization that this was the end for them, and he bowed a most formal bow. She held out her hand to him, and he took it, like a man in a trance, but conscious of the jewels on her fingers. “You are going away?” she said, with concern in her eyes—a concern which he knew to be politeness. She was still pale, he thought, and wistfully sad for her father. “Yes,” he said. “I am to go—Shimilin sends me word that a private car is in the yards and——” He let his eyes wander to the figure of the serving woman, who was lurking behind the curtains which led to the far room. He wondered what he could say for she seemed so comfortable now with her servants—the old woman and Wassili—and so self-sufficient. How could she be otherwise than rich, he thought, with such clothes and such jewels? He wished that she had kept her clothes as a samovar girl, and then he might have found it possible to give utterance to some of the words which pressed him to be said. He would have found it much easier to blurt out what was in his heart if she had not been so grand and disconcerting in that velvet gown. He sensed a hurt within himself that she had done this—could it be that she had dressed herself deliberately for their meeting so that he should find it easy to keep his place? “You have called to say good-by,” she said, and drew aside slightly. “Then you must come in—and we shall have a glass of tea.” Then, as if she divined what was in his mind about her changed appearance, she added, “We Kirsakoffs never mourn our dead with garments—an old custom of our warrior clan—instead, we wear our best, out of respect for those who have gone—and these poor things are the best I have. So please do not think it strange. Wassili! Fire the samovar and fetch fresh water for a guest of the house!” “But are you safe?” burst out Peter. “You are in danger enough from those who may know you killed the Ataman, without revealing your jewels and your good clothes! There may be a rising against Shimilin at any time—the Bolsheviki—the bandits from Mongolia! It is too bad that you have put on these clothes—for your own safety!” “You are afraid I shall be killed because I killed Zorogoff?” she asked, with the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Yes, I am afraid,” he went on earnestly. “You should have remained in the dress of a samovar girl——” “Oh, but I have done playing at being a samovar girl,” she laughed. “If I am to die, I shall die as a Kirsakoff, and not as a servant. So you are leaving the city soon?” “I am leaving at once. Shimilin has sent me word that a private car is in the yards—and I cannot disregard such a hint, for he may mean it as a command. And—why don’t you go too?” “I? Go? Where?” she seemed amazed at the idea. “To Vladivostok. You would be safe there, and safe on the train. Take this chance to escape from the city, while Shimilin has control.”