"Vera Michailovna," I cried, "what have I done?"
"Done?" she asked me with a look of self-conscious surprise. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean well enough," I answered. I tried to speak firmly, but my voice trembled a little. "You told me I was your friend. When I was ill the other day you came to me and said that you needed help and that you wanted me to help you. I said that I would--"
"Well?" she said, in a hard, unrelenting voice.
"Well--" I hesitated and stammered, cursing myself for my miserable cowardice. "You are in trouble now, Vera--great trouble--I came here because I am ready to do anything for you--anything--and you treat me like a stranger, almost like an enemy."
I saw her lip tremble--only for an instant. She said nothing.
"If you've got anything against me since you saw me last," I went on, "tell me and I'll go away. But I had to see you and also Lawrence--"
At the mention of his name her whole body quivered, but again only for an instant.
She looked up at me then gravely and coldly, and without the sign of any emotion either in her face or voice.
"Thank you, Ivan Andreievitch, but I want no help--I am in no trouble. It was very kind of Mr. Lawrence, but really--"
Then I could endure it no longer. I broke out:
"Vera, what's the matter. You know all this isn't true.... I don't know what idea you have now in your head, but you must let me speak to you. I've got to tell you this--that Lawrence must go back to England, and as soon as possible--and I will see that he does--"
That did its work. In an instant she was upon me like a wild beast, springing from her chair, standing close to me, her head flung back, her eyes furious.
"You wouldn't dare!" she cried. "It's none of your business, Ivan Andreievitch. You say you're my friend. You're not. You're my enemy--my enemy. I don't care for him, not in the very least--he is nothing to me--nothing to me at all. But he mustn't go back to England. It will ruin his career. You will ruin him for life, Ivan Andreievitch. What business is it of yours? You imagine--because of what you fancied you saw at Nina's party. There was nothing at Nina's party--nothing. I love my husband, Ivan Andreievitch, and you are my enemy if you say anything else. And you pretend to be his friend, but you are his enemy if you try to have him sent back to England.... He must not go. For the matter of that, I will never see him again--never--if that is what you want. See, I promise you never--never--" She suddenly broke down--she, Vera Michailovna, the proudest woman I had ever known, turning from me, her head in her hands, sobbing, her shoulders bent.