hness you are not to be equalled by us.
Only, how seldom.... Whereas the silliest woman can always be made
of use. And why? Because we have passion, unappeasable passion.... I
should like to know what he is smiling at?"

"I am not smiling," protested Razumov gloomily.

"Well! How is one to call it? You made some sort of face. Yes, I know!
You men can love here and hate there and desire something or other--and
you make a great to-do about it, and you call it passion! Yes! While
it lasts. But we women are in love with love, and with hate, with these
very things I tell you, and with desire itself. That's why we can't be
bribed off so easily as you men. In life, you see, there is not much
choice. You have either to rot or to burn. And there is not one of us,
painted or unpainted, that would not rather burn than rot."

She spoke with energy, but in a matter-of-fact tone. Razumov's attention
had wandered away on a track of its own--outside the bars of the
gate--but not out of earshot. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his
coat.

"Rot or burn! Powerfully stated. Painted or unpainted. Very vigorous.
Painted or...Do tell me--she would be infernally jealous of him,
wouldn't she?"

"Who? What? The Baroness? Eleanor Maximovna? Jealous of Peter
Ivanovitch? Heavens! Are these the questions the man's mind is running
on? Such a thing is not to be thought of."

"Why? Can't a wealthy old woman be jealous? Or, are they all pure
spirits together?"

"But what put it into your head to ask such a question?" she wondered.

"Nothing. I just asked. Masculine frivolity, if you like."

"I don't like," she retorted at once. "It is not the time to be
frivolous. What are you flinging your very heart against? Or, perhaps,
you are only playing a part."

Razumov had felt that woman's observation of him like a physical
contact, like a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. At that moment he
received the mysterious impression of her having made up her mind for a
closer grip. He stiffened himself inwardly to bear it without betraying
himself.

"Playing a Part," he repeated, presenting to her an unmoved profile. "It
must be done very badly since you see through the assumption."

She watched him, her forehead drawn into perpendicular folds, the thin
black eyebrows diverging upwards like the antennae of an insect. He
added hardly audibly--

"You are mistaken. I am doing it no more than the rest of us."

"Who is doing it?" she snapped out