would come after. We never discussed formally any line
of conduct. It was understood, I think."

She approved his statement with slight nods.

"You, of course, wished to remain in Russia?"

"In St. Petersburg itself," emphasized Razumov. "It was the only safe
course for me. And, moreover, I had nowhere else to go."

"Yes! Yes! I know. Clearly. And the other--this wonderful Haldin
appearing only to be regretted--you don't know what he intended?"

Razumov had foreseen that such a question would certainly come to meet
him sooner or later. He raised his hands a little and let them fall
helplessly by his side--nothing more.

It was the white-haired woman conspirator who was the first to break the
silence.

"Very curious," she pronounced slowly. "And you did not think, Kirylo
Sidorovitch, that he might perhaps wish to get in touch with you again?"

Razumov discovered that he could not suppress the trembling of his lips.
But he thought that he owed it to himself to speak. A negative sign
would not do again. Speak he must, if only to get at the bottom of what
that St. Petersburg letter might have contained.

"I stayed at home next day," he said, bending down a little and plunging
his glance into the black eyes of the woman so that she should not
observe the trembling of his lips. "Yes, I stayed at home. As my actions
are remembered and written about, then perhaps you are aware that I
was _not_ seen at the lectures next day. Eh? You didn't know? Well, I
stopped at home-the live-long day."

As if moved by his agitated tone, she murmured a sympathetic "I see! It
must have been trying enough."

"You seem to understand one's feelings," said Razumov steadily. "It was
trying. It was horrible; it was an atrocious day. It was not the last."

"Yes, I understand. Afterwards, when you heard they had got him. Don't
I know how one feels after losing a comrade in the good fight? One's
ashamed of being left. And I can remember so many. Never mind. They
shall be avenged before long. And what is death? At any rate, it is not
a shameful thing like some kinds of life."

Razumov felt something stir in his breast, a sort of feeble and
unpleasant tremor.

"Some kinds of life?" he repeated, looking at her searchingly.

"The subservient, submissive life. Life? No! Vegetation on the filthy
heap of iniquity which the world is. Life, Razumov, not to be vile must
be a revolt--a pitiless protest--all the time."

She calmed down, the gleam