He went into his little room
and started on his inventions. He was so happy that he hummed to himself
as he worked and cut slices off his pieces of wood, and soaked flannel
in bottles, and wrote funny little sentences in his abominable
handwriting in a red notebook.
One need not grudge it him, poor Markovitch. It was the last happy
half-hour of his life.
He did not turn on his green-shaded lamp, but sat there in the gathering
dusk, chipping up the wood and sometimes stopping, idly lost in happy
thoughts.
Some one came in. He peered through his little glass window and saw that
it was Nina. She passed quickly through the dining-room, beyond, towards
her bedroom, without stopping to switch on the light.
Nina had broken the spell. He went back to his table, but he couldn't
work now, and he felt vaguely uneasy and cold. He was just going to
leave his work and find the _Retch_ and settle down to a comfortable
read, when he heard the hall door close. He stood behind his little
glass window and watched; it was Vera, perhaps... it must be... his
heart began eagerly to beat.
It _was_ Vera. At once he saw that she was strangely agitated.
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