We three had stood back, a little in the shadow, gazing about to see
whether we could hail a cab.
As we waited I took my last look at Grogoff, his stout figure against
the purple sky, the masts of the ships, the pale tumbling river, the
black line of the farther shore. He stood, his arms waving, his mouth
open, the personification of the disease from which Russia was
suffering.
A cab arrived. I turned, said as it were, my farewell to Grogoff and
everything for which he stood, and went.
We drove home almost in silence. Vera, staring in front of her, her face
proud and reserved, building up a wall of her own thoughts.
"Come in for a moment, won't you?" she asked me, rather reluctantly I
thought. But I accepted, climbed the stairs and followed Uncle Ivan's
stubby and self-satisfied progress into the flat.
I heard Vera cry. I hurried after her and found, standing close
together, in the middle of the room Henry Bohun and Nina!
With a little sob of joy and shame too, Nina was locked in Vera's arms.
XV
This is obviously the place for the story, based, of course, on the very
modest and slender account given me by the hero of it, of young Bohun's
knightly adventure.
Pages:
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577