And there she still was when Gritzko entered the room.

She looked up at him piteously, and with unconscious instinct tried to
pull together her torn blouse.

In a flash he saw what she thought, and one of those strange shades in
his character made him come to a resolve. Not until she should lie
willingly in his arms--herself given by love--should he tell her her
belief was false.

He advanced up the room with a grave quiet face. His expression was
inscrutable. She could read nothing from his look. Her sick imagination
told her he was thus serene because he had won, and she covered her
face with her hands, while her cheeks flamed, and she sobbed.

Her weeping hurt him--he nearly relented--but
as he came near she looked up.

No! Not in this mood would he win her! and his resolve held.

She did not make him any reproaches; she just sat there, a crumpled,
pitiful figure in a corner on the floor.

"The snowstorm is over," he said in a restrained voice; "we can get on
now. Some of my Moujiks got here this morning, and I have been able to
send word to the Princess that she should not be alarmed."

Then, as Tamara did not move, he put out his hand and helped her up.
She shuddered when he touched her, and her tears burst out afresh.
Where was all her pride gone--it lay trampled in the dust.