too. Razumov, whose hilarity
died out all at once, made a step forward.

"Enough of this," he began in a clear, incisive voice, though he could
hardly control the trembling of his legs. "I will have no more of it. I
shall not permit anyone.... I can see very well what you are at with
those allusions.... Inquire, investigate! I defy you, but I will not
be played with."

He had spoken such words before. He had been driven to cry them out in
the face of other suspicions. It was an infernal cycle bringing round
that protest like a fatal necessity of his existence. But it was no use.
He would be always played with. Luckily life does not last for ever.

"I won't have it!" he shouted, striking his fist into the palm of his
other hand.

"Kirylo Sidorovitch--what has come to you?" The woman revolutionist
interfered with authority. They were all looking at Razumov now; the
slayer of spies and gendarmes had turned about, presenting his enormous
stomach in full, like a shield.

"Don't shout. There are people passing." Sophia Antonovna was
apprehensive of another outburst. A steam-launch from Monrepos had
come to the landing-stage opposite the gate, its hoarse whistle and
the churning noise alongside all unnoticed, had landed a small bunch of
local passengers who were dispersing their several ways. Only a specimen
of early tourist in knickerbockers, conspicuous by a brand-new yellow
leather glass-case, hung about for a moment, scenting something unusual
about these four people within the rusty iron gates of what looked the
grounds run wild of an unoccupied private house. Ah! If he had only
known what the chance of commonplace travelling had suddenly put in his
way! But he was a well-bred person; he averted his gaze and moved off
with short steps along the avenue, on the watch for a tramcar.

A gesture from Sophia Antonovna, "Leave him to me," had sent the two men
away--the buzzing of the inarticulate voice growing fainter and fainter,
and the thin pipe of "What now? what's the matter?" reduced to the
proportions of a squeaking toy by the distance. They had left him to
her. So many things could be left safely to the experience of Sophia
Antonovna. And at once, her black eyes turned to Razumov, her mind tried
to get at the heart of that outburst. It had some meaning. No one is
born an active revolutionist. The change comes disturbingly, with the
force of a sudden vocation, bringing in its train agonizing doubts,
assertive viol