XII

“Would she come?” I thought, as next morning we drove off to the wharf. We passed a lonely square with a solitary Chink with a tin sword. That was the last we saw of Vladivostok.

The family came to see us off in practically its full strength. But she did not come. That settled it.

Nikolai Vasilievich was unshaven⁠—a perfectly correct omission in a Russian gentleman. He wore blue spectacles, a bowler hat, a summer coat and goloshes. On the pier we talked of the political situation. The Admiral repeated but one phrase: “We are not to blame.” The Russian General shook his head and blamed some vague, unknown power in rather vague, indefinite terms with a rather vague, indefinite blame, and then summed up the situation with “I told you so!” though the substance of his telling was all very mysterious. But both fools and wise men alike had long given up the attempt to discover any meaning whatsoever in this resplendent General’s utterances; and if they listened to him at all, their attention was usually concentrated on his face or uniform or any other object near at hand.

She had not come. That settled it.

It rained, as on the day we arrived.

Then the Admiral came up to Nikolai Vasilievich to say goodbye. “Well, Nikolai Vasilievich,” he said, “what will you do?”

“Well⁠ ⁠… I’ll wait,” said Nikolai Vasilievich. “I don’t think it can be long now.⁠ ⁠…”