where all things were allowed and nobody ever thought of asking anybody's leave about anything.

He heard a rustling of silk and the unbuttoning of a dress,—then a question:

»You are not an author?«

»What ... an author? No, I am not an author. Er ... do you like authors?«

»No, I do not.«

»Why? They are men....« He yawned—a long satisfying yawn.

»And what is your name?«

Silence ... and then:

»My name is ... N—no! Peter.«

»And what are you? What do you do?«

The girl questioned him gently, but watchfully, and in a firm tone. The impression conveyed by her voice might have been that she was moving towards the bed. But he by now had ceased to hear her; he was already sleeping. For one moment an expiring thought had flickered in a single picture, in which time and space melted into a motley of shadows, gloom and light, motion and repose, a single picture of crowds and endless streets and a ceaseless turning of wheels depicted the whole of those two days and nights of frenzied chase. And in an instant all of this was stilled, dimmed, and had passed away, and then in the soft half-light, in the deep shadow, he had an image of one of the picture galleries where, the day before, for two hours, he had eluded his pursuers. He seemed to be sitting on a red velvet divan, which was extraordinarily soft, and staring fixedly at a huge black picture; and such a restfulness proceeded from that old black cracked canvas, his eyes were so much rested, his thoughts reposing so gently, that for some moments, even in his sleep, he began fighting sleep, confusedly afraid of it, as though of an unknown disquietude.

But the music in the hall played on, the frequent little notes with bare heads hairless jostled up and down, and the thought came: »Now I can sleep.« And all at once he fell into a deep slumber. Triumphantly, eagerly, gentle glossy sleep soothed and embraced him and in profound silence masking their breathing they went their way into a pellucid melting sea.

Thus he slept on—one hour and then another—on his back in the polite posture he had assumed awake, his right hand in his pocket holding the key and his revolver; the girl, neck and arms bare sitting opposite, smoking, sipping cognac, gazing on him. Now and then, to get a better view, she craned her rather thin, flexible neck, and, when she moved, her lips curled with two deep creases of constraint. She had not thought to turn out the hanging lamp, and under the strong light he was neither young nor old nor strange nor intimate, but some unknown being—the cheeks unknown, the nose ending in a bird's beak of shape unknown, the breathing, so even and powerful and strong, unknown. His thick hair was cut short in military fashion, and she noticed on the left temple, near the eye, a little whitened scar from some former wound. There was no cross strung round his neck.

The music in the hall died down or started afresh—piano and violin and songs and the pit-a-pat of dancing feet; but she sat on, smoking cigarettes and observing the sleeper. She stretched her neck inquisitively to look at his left hand which was lying on his breast —a very broad palm and strong restful fingers; it seemed to weigh heavily on him, to hurt, so with a careful movement she lifted it and let it down gently at the side of the big body on the bed. Then rose swiftly and noisily, and, as though she wanted to smash the switch, roughly turned out the upper lamp, lighting the lower one under the red hood.

But even then he did not stir. His face in the pink light remained as unknown, as terrifying as before, in its immobility and repose.

She turned aside, clasped her knees with her arms, now softly reddening, threw her head back and stared motionless at the ceiling from the dusky hollows of her unblinking eyes. And in her teeth, tightly pressed, there hung a cigarette, half smoked, cold, dead.

Something had happened, something unexpected and terrible, something considerable and of consequence, whilst he was sleeping—this much he understood at a flash, even before he was properly awake, at the first sound of a harsh, unknown voice. He took it in with that sharpened sense of danger which to him and his comrades had developed almost into a new special sense. He was up quickly and sat with his hand pressing his revolver hard, his eyes searchingly and sharply exploring the mist of the room. And when he saw her, in the same attitude, with her shoulders of that transparent rosy hue, and her bared breast, and those eyes so enigmatically dark and unswerving, he thought to himself: »She has betrayed me!« Then he looked again more steadily, sighed deeply, and corrected himself: »She hasn't yet, but she will.«

How miserable it all was!

He drew a deep breath and asked curtly: »Well, what is it?«

She said nothing. She smiled triumphantly and spitefully, looked at him and was silent,—as though she already accounted him her own, and without haste or hurry wanted to gloat over her power.

»What did you say just now?« he repeated, with a frown.

»What I said? I said, get up!—that's what I said. Get up! You 've been asleep. It's time to play the game. This isn't a doss-house, my dear!«

»Tum on the light,« he commanded.

»I will not.«

He turned it on himself, and under the white light he saw her eyes infinitely wicked and black and painted, and her mouth compressed with hatred and disdain. And he saw the naked arms, and all of her, alien, decisive, ready to do something irrevocable. He saw the prostitute—a creature repellant to him.

»What's the matter with you? Are you drunk?« he asked, seriously disquieted, and put out a hand to take his high starched collar. But, anticipating his movement, she snatched at the collar, and without looking hurled it somewhere, anywhere, into the room, behind the chest of drawers, into a corner.

»I won't give it to you!«

»What are you after now?« he asked calmly enough, but gripping her arm with a hard firm pressure all round like an iron ring, so that the fingers of her thin hand drooped powerlessly.

»Let go! You're hurting me!« she cried, and he held her more gently, but did not release his hold.

»You—look for it!«

»What is it, my dear? Are you going to shoot me? Isn't that a revolver you have in your pocket? Well, shoot, shoot! I'll see how you shoot me! Or would you like to tell me why you take a woman and then go to sleep by yourself and tell her to drink—'Drink, and I'll go to sleep!' With his hair cut and clean shaven, so that he thinks nobody will know him! Do you want to go to the police, my dear? To the police, eh?«

She laughed, loud and merrily—and in a way that really frightened him, there was such a savage, despairing joy on her face, as though she had gone mad. And then the idea that all was going to be lost in such a ludicrous fashion, that he would have to commit this silly, cruel, and senseless murder, and yet himself probably perish in vain, struck him with even greater horror. Deadly pale, but externally calm and with the same resolute air, he looked at her, followed her every movement and word, collecting his thoughts.

»Well? Silent now? Lost your tongue?«

He could seize this snaky neck and crush it and she would never be able to utter a shriek. He could do it without compunction; actually, while he held her so firmly, she had been twisting herself about like a snake.

»So you know, Liuba, what I am?«

»I do. You«—she enunciated the words syllable by syllable, harshly and with an air of triumph—»you are a revolutionary! That's what you are!«

»How do you know?«

She smiled mockingly.

»We aren't quite in the backwoods here.«

»Well, suppose we admit that I....«

»Pooh, suppose we admit! Let go of my arm! You're all alike, you men, always ready to use your strength against a woman. Let go!«

He released her arm and sat down,