In the fire-place of Nita's pretty little drawing-room crackles a gay wood fire. Everything in the room is attractive and pretty, as usual. In the midst of these cosey surroundings sits Sonia, shivering, with bent head. Nita enters the room, goes up to her, and lays a hand on her shoulder. Sonia looks up; her eyes meet those of her friend almost anxiously.
"Ah! you know it already?" murmurs she. Nita nods. For a moment they are both silent.
"It is horrible!" says Sonia, dully, and shuddering.
"Yes," says Nita, shortly. She sits down opposite Sonia. "Do they know who it was?" she asks after a while.
"No," replied Sonia. "She will not tell. My father has spoken to Barbara. Nothing can be gotten out of her. When they first asked her, she replied: 'It is no use, and they would harm him.' She does not wish that any harm should happen to him. Now she says nothing at all. She lies the whole time with her face to the wall, silent. Really, there is something generous in her silence."
"How does he bear it?" asks Nita, suddenly, quite startlingly.
"Barbara told papa that he--you mean Lensky?--was completely broken. At first, he could have almost killed Mascha from rage; since then, he sits near her, strokes her hands, her hair, and calls her little pet names. But she listens to nothing--lies there silently with set teeth."
Nita lowers her head; then she, absent-mindedly, throws a piece of wood on the fire.
"And we imagined that the child had a fancy for Bärenburg!" says Sonia. "Thus we explained her striking depression; but no, Bärenburg was betrothed. We were evidently on a false track. It must have been one of our exiles--a nihilist with revolutionary moral and political ideas."
"No, no!" Nita shakes her head, and looks thoughtfully before her. "It was Karl!" she cries out. "Do you remember how, that time, at the Jeliagins' reception, when Mrs. Joyce brought the news of Karl's betrothal, Mascha let a cup fall, and tottered out half swooning? It must be Karl!"