When she saw that it was I, she
stopped, fumbled for her handkerchief, which she found, wiped her eyes,
then turned away from me and looked out over the river.
"Nina, dear," I said, "what's the matter?"
She didn't answer; at length she turned round and said:
"You've been ill again, haven't you?"
One cheek had a dirty tear-stain on it, which made her inexpressibly
young and pathetic and helpless.
"Yes," I said, "I have."
She caught her breath, put out her hand, and touched my arm.
"Oh, you _do_ look ill!... Vera went to ask, and there was a
rough-looking man there who said that no one could see you, but that you
were all right.... One of us ought to have forced a way in--M. Bohun
wanted to--but we've all been thinking of ourselves."
"What's the matter, Nina?" I asked. "You've been crying."
"Nothing's the matter. I'm all right."
"No, you're not. You ought to tell me. You trusted me once."
"I don't trust any one," she answered fiercely. "Especially not
Englishmen."
"What's the matter?" I asked again.
"Nothing.... We're just as we were. Except," she suddenly looked up at
me, "Uncle Alexei's living with us now.
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