There was a knock on the door, it was flung open as though by the wind, and Nina was with us. Her face was rosy with the cold, her eyes laughed under her little round fur cap. She came running across the room, pulled herself up with a little cry beside the bed, and then flung herself upon me, throwing her arms around my neck and kissing me.
“My dear Nina!” cried Vera.
She looked up, laughing.
“Why not? Poor Durdles. Are you better? Biédnie... give me your hands. But—how cold they are! And there are draughts everywhere. I’ve brought you some chocolates—and a book.”
“My dear!...” Vera cried again. “He won’t like that,” pointing to a work of fiction by a modern Russian literary lady whose heart and brain are of the succulent variety.
“Why not? She’s very good. It’s lovely! All about impossible people! Durdles, dear! I’ll give up the party. We won’t go. We’ll sit here and entertain you. I’ll send Boris away. We’ll tell him we don’t want him.”
“Boris!” cried Vera.
“Yes,” Nina laughed a little uneasily, I thought. “I know you said he wasn’t to come. He’ll quarrel with Rozanov of course. But he said he would. And so how was one to prevent him? You’re always so tiresome, Vera.... I’m not a baby now, nor is Boris. If he wants to come he shall come.”
Vera stood away from us both. I could see that she was very angry. I had never seen her angry before.
“You know that it’s impossible, Nina,” she said. “You know that Rozanov hates him. And besides—there are other reasons. You know them perfectly well, Nina.”