d justice."

"Yes. There is too much hate and revenge in that work. It must be done.
It is a sacrifice--and so let it be all the greater. Destruction is the
work of anger. Let the tyrants and the slayers be forgotten together,
and only the reconstructors be remembered.''

"And did Sophia Antonovna agree with you?" I asked sceptically.

"She did not say anything except, 'It is good for you to believe in
love.' I should think she understood me. Then she asked me if I hoped to
see Mr. Razumov presently. I said I trusted I could manage to bring him
to see my mother this evening, as my mother had learned of his being
here and was morbidly impatient to learn if he could tell us something
of Victor. He was the only friend of my brother we knew of, and a great
intimate. She said, 'Oh! Your brother--yes. Please tell Mr. Razumov that
I have made public the story which came to me from St. Petersburg. It
concerns your brother's arrest,' she added. 'He was betrayed by a man of
the people who has since hanged himself. Mr. Razumov will explain it all
to you. I gave him the full information this afternoon. And please tell
Mr. Razumov that Sophia Antonovna sends him her greetings. I am going
away early in the morning--far away.'"

And Miss Haldin added, after a moment of silence--"I was so moved
by what I heard so unexpectedly that I simply could not speak to you
before.... A man of the people! Oh, our poor people!"

She walked slowly, as if tired out suddenly. Her head drooped; from the
windows of a building with terraces and balconies came the banal sound
of hotel music; before the low mean portals of the Casino two red
posters blazed under the electric lamps, with a cheap provincial
effect.--and the emptiness of the quays, the desert aspect of the
streets, had an air of hypocritical respectability and of inexpressible
dreariness.

I had taken for granted she had obtained the address, and let myself be
guided by her. On the Mont Blanc bridge, where a few dark figures seemed
lost in the wide and long perspective defined by the lights, she said--

"It isn't very far from our house. I somehow thought it couldn't be.
The address is Rue de Carouge. I think it must be one of those big new
houses for artisans."

She took my arm confidingly, familiarly, and accelerated her pace. There
was something primitive in our proceedings. We did not think of
the resources of civilization. A late tramcar overtook us; a row of
_fiacres_ stood by