After wandering aimlessly for many hours, my footsteps led me involuntarily to Albert Hall Mansions.
It was late in the evening, somewhere about ten o’clock, when the old servant Ivan admitted me. As I entered the drawing-room she did not at first observe my presence, and I stood for a few moments watching her. She wore a dainty evening gown of cream relieved by amber ribbons, and was reclining in an armchair, reading a novel. The mellow light of the shaded lamp fell upon her fair head pillowed on the satin cushion, and her whole attitude was one of peace and repose. Between her dainty fingers she held a cigarette.
Suddenly my movement startled her.
“Ah! Vladimir! Quel plaisir!” she cried, tossing aside her book and rising to bid me welcome. “All day I have expected you.”
After kissing her upturned face I sank into a chair without a word.
“What ails you?” she asked, starting up in alarm, noticing my pale countenance and mud-bespattered clothes. “You—you are ill. Tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” I assured her, striving to smile. “A slight faintness, that’s all.”
Accepting the explanation, she re-seated herself and we commenced to chat. Of what we said I have no recollection. I know that when she lifted my hand to her lips I drew it away as if I had been stung. She was caressing the hand that was so soon to take her life! The thought was horrifying, and she was at a loss to understand the meaning of my action.
“You are not well to-night, Vladimir,” she said half-reproachfully.
“No, no, Irene,” I replied, “I’m well enough in health. It is the knowledge of our love that troubles me.”