"It's just about Markovitch I wanted to ask you," I went on. "I'm infernally worried, and I want your help. It may seem ridiculous of me to interfere in another family like this, with people with whom I have, after all, nothing to do. But there are two reasons why it isn't ridiculous. One is the deep affection I have for Nina and Vera. I promised them my friendship, and now I've got to back that promise. And the other is that you and I are really responsible for bringing Lawrence into the family. They never would have known him if it hadn't been for us. There's danger and trouble of every sort brewing, and Semyonov, as you know, is helping it on wherever he can. Well, now, what I want to know is, how much have you seen of Markovitch lately, and has he talked to you?" Bohun considered. "I've seen very little of him," he said at last. "I think he avoids me now. He's such a weird bird that it's impossible to tell of what he's really thinking. I know he was pleased when I asked him to dine with me at the Bear the other night. He looked _most awfully_ pleased. But he wouldn't come. It was as though he suspected that I was laying a trap for him." "But what have you noticed about him otherwise?" "Well, I've seen very little of him. He's sulky just now. He suspected Lawrence, of course--always after that night of Nina's party. But I think that he's reassured again. And of course it's all so ridiculous, because there's nothing to suspect, absolutely nothing--is there?" "Absolutely nothing," I answered firmly. He sighed with relief. "Oh, you don't know how glad I am to hear that," he said. "Because, although I've _known_ that it was all right, Vera's been so odd lately that I've wondered--you know how I care about Vera and--" "How do you mean--odd?" I sharply interrupted. "Well--for instance--of course I've told nobody--and you won't tell any one either--but the other night I found her crying in the flat, sitting up near the table, sobbing her heart out. She thought every one was out--I'd been in my room and she hadn't known. But Vera, Durward--Vera of all people! I didn't let her see me--she doesn't know now that I heard her. But when you care for any one as I care for Vera, it's awful to think that she can suffer like that and one can do nothing. Oh, Durward, I wish to God I wasn't so helpless! You know before I came out to Russia I felt so old; I thought there was nothing I couldn't do, that I was good enough for anybody. And now I'm the most awful ass. Fancy, Durward! Those poems of mine--I thought they were wonderful. I thought--"