Especially when he tried, as he was sometimes ill-advised enough to do, to flirt with young girls, he was a dismal failure.  He was intended, by nature, to be mysterious and malevolent, and had he only had a malevolent spirit there would have been no tragedy—­but in the confused welter that he called his soul, malevolence was the least of the elements, and other things—­love, sympathy, twisted self-pity, ambition, courage, and cowardice—­drowned it.  He was on his best behaviour to-night, and over the points of his high white collar his peaked, ugly, anxious face peered, appealing to the Fates for generosity.

But the Fates despise those who appeal.

I very soon saw that he was on excellent terms with Semyonov, and this could only be, I was sure, because Semyonov had been flattering him.  Very soon I learnt the truth.  I was standing near the table, watching the company, when I found Markovitch at my side.

“Very glad you’ve come, Ivan Andreievitch,” he said.  “I’ve been meaning to come and see you, only I’ve been too busy.”

“How’s the ink getting along?” I asked him.

“Oh, the ink!” He brushed my words scornfully aside.  “No, that’s nothing.  We must postpone that to a more propitious time.  Meanwhile—­meanwhile, Ivan Andreievitch, I’ve hit it at last!”

“What is it this time?” I asked.

He could hardly speak for his excitement.  “It’s wood—­the bark—­the bark of the tree, you know—­a new kind of fibre for cloth.  If I hadn’t got to look after these people here, I’d take you and show you now.  You’re a clever fellow—­you’d understand at once.  I’ve been showing it to Alexei” (he nodded in the direction of Semyonov), “and he entirely agrees with me that there’s every kind of possibility in it.  The thing will be to get the labour—­that’s the trouble nowadays—­but I’ll find somebody—­one of these timber men....”

So that was it, was it?  I looked across at Semyonov, who was now seated on Vera’s right hand just opposite Boris Grogoff.  He was very quiet, very still, looking about him, his square pale beard a kind of symbol of the secret immobility of his soul.  I fancied that I detected behind his placidity an almost relieved self-satisfaction, as though things were going very much better than he had expected.

“So Alexei Petrovitch thinks well of it, does he?” I asked.

“Most enthusiastic,” answered Markovitch eagerly.  “He’s gone into the thing thoroughly with me, and has made some admirable suggestions....  Ivan Andreievitch, I think I should tell you—­I misjudged him.  I wasn’t fair on what I said to you the other day about him.  Or perhaps it is that being at the Front has changed him, softened him a bit.  His love affair there, you know, made him more sympathetic and kindly.  I believe he means well to us all.  Vera won’t agree with me.  She’s more cynical than she used to be.  I don’t like that in her.  She never had a suspicious nature before, but now she doesn’t trust one.”