half hidden by a curtain, sat a woman in a dark dress talking to my father; this woman was Zina�da.

I was petrified. This, I confess, I had never expected. My first impulse was to run away. ‘My father will look round,’ I thought, ‘and I am lost � ’ but a strange feeling – a feeling stronger than curiosity, stronger than jealousy, stronger even than fear – held me there. I began to watch; I strained my ears to listen. It seemed as though my father were insisting on something. Zina�da would not consent. I seem to see her face now – mournful, serious, lovely, and with an inexpressible impress of devotion, grief, love, and a sort of despair – I can find no other word for it. She uttered monosyllables, not raising her eyes, simply smiling – submissively, but without