And suddenly, to her own astonishment, her endurance came to its end. She had never expected to say what she was now going to say to him. She had never dreamed of confession––of enlightening him. And now, all at once, she knew she was going to do it, and that it was a needless and cruel and insane and useless thing to do, for it led her nowhere, and it would leave him in helpless pain.
“Vanya,” she said, “I am in love with Jim Shotwell.”
After a few moments, she turned and slowly crossed the studio. Her hat and coat lay on a chair. She put them on and walked out.
The following morning, Palla, arriving to consult Marya on a matter of the Club’s business, discovered Vanya alone in the studio.
He was lying on the lounge when she entered, and he looked ill, but he rose with all his characteristic grace and charm and led her to a chair, saluting her hand as he seated her.
“Marya has not yet arrived?” she inquired.
His delicate features became very grave and still.
“I thought,” added Palla, “that Marya usually breakfasted at eleven–––”
Something in his expression checked her; and she 279 fell silent, fascinated by the deathly whiteness of his face.