One cheek had a dirty tear-stain on it, which made her inexpressibly young and pathetic and helpless.
“Yes,” I said, “I have.”
She caught her breath, put out her hand, and touched my arm.
“Oh, you do look ill!... Vera went to ask, and there was a rough-looking man there who said that no one could see you, but that you were all right.... One of us ought to have forced a way in—M. Bohun wanted to—but we’ve all been thinking of ourselves.”
“What’s the matter, Nina?” I asked. “You’ve been crying.”
“Nothing’s the matter. I’m all right.”
“No, you’re not. You ought to tell me. You trusted me once.”
“I don’t trust any one,” she answered fiercely. “Especially not Englishmen.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked again.
“Nothing.... We’re just as we were. Except,” she suddenly looked up at me, “Uncle Alexei’s living with us now.”