“Just the same; Donons’ and the Bear are crowded every day. You can’t get a table. So are the cinematographs and the theatres. I went to the Ballet last night.”
“What was it?”
“La Fille Mal Gardée—Karsavina dancing divinely. Everyone was there.”
This closed the strain of public information. I led him further.
“Well, Bohun, what about our friends the Markovitches?” I asked. “How are you getting on there?”
He blushed and looked at his boots.
“All right,” he said. “They’re very decent.”
Then he burst out with: “I say, Durward, what do you think of this uncle that’s turned up, the doctor chap?”
“Nothing particular. Why?”
“You were with him at the Front, weren’t you?”
“I was.”
“Was he a good doctor?”
“Excellent.”
“He had a love affair at the Front, hadn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And she was killed?”
“Yes.”
“Poor devil. …” Then he added: “Did he mind very much?”
“Very much.”
“Funny thing, you wouldn’t think he would.”
“Why not,” I asked.
“Oh, he looks a hard sort of fellow—as though he’d stand anything. I wouldn’t like to have a row with him.”
“Has he been to the Markovitches much lately?”
“Yes—almost every evening.”
“What does he do there?”
“Oh, just sits and talks. Markovitch can’t bear him. You can see that easily enough. He teases him.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“Oh, he laughs at him all the time, at his inventions and that kind of thing. Markovitch gets awfully wild. He is bit of an ass, isn’t he?”
“Do you like Semyonov?” I asked.
“I do rather,” said Henry. “He’s very decent to me. I had a walk with him one afternoon. He said you were awfully brave at the Front.”
“Thank him for nothing,” I said.
“And he said you didn’t like him—don’t you?”
“Ah, that’s too old a story,” I answered. “We know what we feel about one another.”
“Well, Lawrence simply hates him,” continued Bohun. “He says he’s the most thundering cad, and as bad as you make them. I don’t see how he can tell.”
This interested me extremely. “When did he tell you this?” I asked.
“Yesterday. I asked him what he had to judge by and he said instinct. I said he’d no right to go only by that.”
“Has Lawrence been much to the Markovitches?”
“Yes—once or twice. He just sits there and never opens his mouth.”
“Very wise of him if he hasn’t got anything to say.”
“No, but really—do you think so? It doesn’t make him popular.”
“Why, who doesn’t like him?”
“Nobody,” answered Henry ungrammatically. “None of the English anyway. They can’t stand him at the Embassy or the Mission. They say he’s fearfully stuck-up and thinks about nothing but himself. … I don’t agree, of course—all the same, he might make himself more agreeable to people.”
“What nonsense!” I answered hotly. “Lawrence is one of the best fellows that ever breathed. The Markovitches don’t dislike him, do they?”
“No, he’s quite different with them. Vera Michailovna likes him I know.”
It was the first time that he had mentioned her name to me. He turned towards me now, his face crimson. “I say—that’s really what I came to talk about, Durward. I care for her madly! … I’d die for her. I would really. I love her, Durward. I see now I’ve never loved anybody before.”
“Well, what will you do about it?”
“Do about it? … Why nothing, of course. It’s all perfectly hopeless. In the first place, there’s Markovitch.”
“Yes. There’s Markovitch,” I agreed.
“She doesn’t care for him—does she? You know that—” He waited, eagerly staring into my face.
I had a temptation to laugh. He was so very young, so very helpless, and yet—that sense of his youth had pathos in it too, and I suddenly liked young Bohun—for the first time.
“Look here, Bohun,” I said, trying to speak with a proper solemnity. “Don’t be a young ass. You know that it’s hopeless, any feeling of that kind. She does care for her husband. She could never care for you in that way, and you’d only make trouble for them all if you went on with it. … On the other hand, she needs a friend badly. You can do that for her. Be her pal. See that things are all right in the house. Make a friend of Markovitch himself. Look after him!”
“Look after Markovitch!” Bohun exclaimed.
“Yes … I don’t want to be melodramatic, but there’s trouble coming there; and if you’re the friend of them all, you can help—more than you know. Only none of the other business—”
Bohun flushed. “She doesn’t know—she never will. I only want to be a friend of hers, as you put it. Anything else is hopeless, of course. I’m not the kind of fellow she’d ever look at, even if Markovitch wasn’t there. But if I can do anything … I’d be awfully glad. What kind of trouble do you mean?” he asked.
“Probably nothing,” I said; “only she wants a friend. And Markovitch wants one too.”
There was a pause—then Bohun said, “I say, Durward—what an awful ass I was.”
“What about?” I asked.
“About my poetry—and all that. Thinking it so important.”
“Yes,” I said, “you were.”
“I’ve written some poetry to her and I tore it up,” he ended.
“That’s a good thing,” said I.
“I’m glad I told you,” he said. He got up to go. “I say, Durward—”
“Well,” I asked.
“You’re an awfully funny chap. Not a bit what you look—”
“That’s all right,” I said; “I know what you mean.”
“Well, good night,” he said, and went.
XVI
I thought that night, as I lay cosily in my dusky room, of those old stories by Wilkie Collins that had once upon a time so deeply engrossed my interest—stories in which, because someone has disappeared on a snowy night, or painted his face blue, or locked up a room and lost the key, or broken down in his carriage on a windy night at the crossroads, dozens of people are involved, diaries are written, confessions are made, and all the characters move along different roads towards the same lighted, comfortable Inn. That is the kind of story that intrigues me, whether it be written about outside mysteries by Wilkie Collins or inside mysteries by the great creator of
