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"HE SNATCHED UP HIS UNTASTED GLASS OF WINE AND FLUNG THE CONTENTS IN THE FACE OF VASSILITCH."
"Are you mad?" exclaimed Tweed, grasping the outstretched arm.
A waiter who had observed the action took a step forward, then hesitated, ready for developments.
The ex-officer of Cossacks wiped the liquid from his face and coat. He was very pale. He turned to Tweed.
"I compliment you on the manners of your friends," said he; "they are delightful. I have the honour to wish you good evening." He bowed slightly, twice—the second time to Stefanovitch, who had sunk into a chair; then he quitted the room.
V.
The fatalistic idea that he was being carried onward in spite of himself would occur insistently; he felt that he was no longer master of circumstance.
It was hardly to be wondered at, since it was largely a matter of nerves. Vassilitch had returned to his hotel after the scene at the club, and spent half the night writing a letter to Gabrielle; slept badly, breakfasted on four cups of black coffee, spent the best part of the day in pacing the narrow dimensions of his sitting-room, and was now—as the afternoon waned—as undecided as ever.
He told himself that the only clear part of the business was that he could not do without her—no, nor would he; that he was guiltless of the crime that had awakened her abhorrence and fierce desire for justice. For her brother had escaped death, it appeared, and had come back. But that brother would denounce him, would have to be reckoned with. It was certainly awkward. The difference in their names did not puzzle him. Doubtless the name of Stefanovitch had been assumed from political reasons of prudence.