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Show 236 'I‘IIIC IMIIK I't )IIICS'I‘ MARIE IVANOVNA "Isn‘t it strange f" I said. "we're only a \'t‘I'.\'i or two from the Austrians and not a sound to be heard. lint the gen- darme told me that we Hitht be earet‘nl In-re. .\ good many bullets tlyina about. I believe." "Ah!" she said laughing. "I don‘t t'eel as though any. thing could touch me today. I never loved lit‘e before as I love it now. Is it right to be so happy at such a time as this and in such a place? . . . .\nd how strange it is that through all the tragedy one can only truly see one's own little atlairs. and only feel one's own little troubles and joys. That's bad . . . one should be punished for thatl" I loved her at that moment: I felt bitterly, I remember, that I, because I was plain and a cripple, silent and unin~ teresting‘. would never win the love, of such women. I remembered little Andrey Vassilievitehs words about his wife: "For me she cared as good women care for the poor." In that way for me too women would eare--when they cared at all. And always, all my life, it would be like that. How unfair that everything should be given to the Semyonovs and the Nikitins of this world, everything denied to such men as Trenehard, Andrey Vassilieviteh and I! . . . But my little grumble passed as I looked at her. How honest and straight and true with her impulses, her enthusiasms, her rebellions and ignorances she was! Yes, I loved her and had always loved her. That was why I had 237 "Sit down here beside me." She made way for me on the. sofa. "Ivan Andreievitch, you will always be my friend 3" "Always," I answered. "I believe you will. I'm a little afraid of you, but I think that I would rather have you as a friend than any one ~execpt John. IIow fortunate I am! Two Englishmen for my friends! You do not change as I{~russians do! You will be angry with me when you think that I am wrong, but then I can believe you. I know that you will tell me the truth." "Perhaps," I said slowly, "Alexei I'etroviteh will not wish that I should be your friend I" "Alexei?> she, said, laughing. "Oh, thank you very much, I shall choose my own .t'riends. That. will always be my atIair." I had an uneasy suspieion that perhaps she knew as IittIo about Semyonov as she had once known about 'I‘rein-hard. It might be that all her life she might never learn wisdom. I do not know that I wished her to learn it. "No," she continued. "lint you forgive, me now? Forgive me for all my mistakes, for thinking that I loved .Iohn when I did not and treating him so badly. Ah! but how unhappy I was! I wished to be honourable and honest I wished it passionately- and I sevnn-d only to Itllllx't‘ inis- takes. And then beeanse I was ashamed ot' nrvselt' I \HH cared for Trenchard, why now I was attracted by SemyODOV; angry with everyone -at least it, si-enn-d that it, was with because, shadow of a man as I was, not man enough to be jealous, I could see with her eyes, stand beside her and share her emotion. . . . But Godl how that day I despised myself! every one, but it was really with II|‘\~<'II.." "I did you injustice," Isaid. ".\nd I did .\Ie.\'ei I'vtrw viteh an injustice. MIN). I know now that he truly and deeply loves you. . . . I believe that you will In- very happy . . . yes. it is IH'III‘I'. much better, than that you should have married 'I'renvhard." "You're tired!" she said, looking at me. hurting you 2" I\ot ranch," I answered. K‘ I'- ' "Is your leg Iler face flushed with happiness, that strange dash of |