who at that time held sovereign sway over men's fancies. There was nothing of that kind to be discerned in the face of the girl who came in. Had I been a little older and more experienced I should probably have paid more attention to her eyes, which were small and deep-set, with full lids, but dark as agate, alert and bright, a thing rare in fair-haired people. Poetical tendencies I should not have detected in their rapid, as it were elusive, glance, but hints of a passionate soul, passionate to self-forgetfulness. But I was very young then.

I held out my hand to Musa Pavlovna--she did not give me hers--she did not notice my movement; she sat down on the chair Tarhov placed for her, but did not take off her hat and cape.

She was, obviously, ill at ease; my presence embarrassed her. She drew deep breaths, at irregular intervals, as though she were gasping for air.

"I've only come to you for one minute, Vladimir Nikolaitch," she began--her voice was very soft and deep; from her crimson, almost childish lips, it seemed rather strange;--"but our madame would not let me out for more than half an hour. You weren't well the day before yesterday . . . and so, I thought. . . ."

She stammered and hung her head. Under the shade of her thick, low brows her dark eyes darted--to and fro--elusively. There