"I never intended you to dance the Mazurka with him," was all Gritzko said.
"And how have you prevented it?" Tamara asked, and grew pale to her lips.
"What does it matter to you?" he said. "Are you nervous about Boris?"
And now he turned and fully looked at her, and she was deeply moved by the expression in his face.
He was suffering extremely, she could distinguish that, but underneath the pain there was a wild triumph, too. Her whole being was wrung. Love and fear and solicitude, and, yes, rebellion also had its place. And at last she said:
"I am nervous, not for Count Varishkine, but for what you may have done."
He leaned back and laughed with almost his old irresponsible mirth.
"I can take care of my own deeds, thanks, Madame," he said.
And then anger rose in Tamara beyond sympathy for pain.
She sat silent, staring in front of her, the strain of the evening was beginning to tell. She hardly knew what he said, or she said, until the Mazurka was at an end, all the impression it left with her was one of tension and fear. Then the polonaise formed, and they went in to supper.