“No, I was wrong. But I’ve been terribly worried during these last weeks. I’ve thought it all out to-day and I’ve decided—” there was a catch in her breath and she paused; she went on—“decided that there mustn’t be any more weakness. I’m much weaker than I thought. I would be ashamed if I didn’t think that shame was a silly thing to have. But now I am quite clear; I must make Nicholas and Nina happy. Whatever else comes I must do that. It has been terrible, these last weeks. We’ve all been angry and miserable, and now I must put it right. I can if I try. I’ve been forgetting that I chose my own life myself, and now I mustn’t be cowardly because it’s difficult. I will make it right myself....”
She paused again, then she said, looking me straight in the face,
“Ivan Andreievitch, does Nina care for Mr. Lawrence?”
She was looking at me, with large black eyes so simply, with such trust in me, that I could only tell her the truth.
“Yes,” I said, “she does.”
Her eyes fell, then she looked up at me again.
“I thought so,” she said. “And does he care for her?”
“No,” I said, “he does not.”
“He must,” she said. “It would be a very happy thing for them to marry.”
She spoke very low, so that I could scarcely hear her words.