There were so many things afterwards that I might have said--and she never gave me another chance." She never did--she kept him from her.

Kind to him, perhaps, but never allowing him another moment's intimacy.

He had almost the air, it seemed to me, of patiently waiting for the moment when she should need him, the air too of a man who was sure, in his heart, that that moment would come.
And the other thing that stiffened him was his hatred for Semyonov.
Hatred may seem too fierce a word for the emotion of any one as mild and gentle as Trenchard--and yet hatred at this time it was.

He seemed no longer afraid of Semyonov and there was something about him now which surprised the other man.

Through all those first days at Mittoevo, when we seemed for a moment almost to have slipped out of the war and to be leading the smaller more quarrelsome life of earlier days, Trenchard was occupied with only one question--"What was he feeling about Semyonov ?"--"I felt as though I could stand anything if only she didn't love him.