istened to speeches where natural sentiment struggled
with caution. Evidently the Prince was afraid of encouraging any hopes
of future intercourse. But there was a touch of tenderness in the voice
uttering in the dark the guarded general phrases of goodwill. And the
Prince too said--

"I have perfect confidence in you, Mr. Razumov."

"They all, it seems, have confidence in me," thought Razumov dully. He
had an indulgent contempt for the man sitting shoulder to shoulder with
him in the confined space. Probably he was afraid of scenes with his
wife. She was said to be proud and violent.

It seemed to him bizarre that secrecy should play such a large part in
the comfort and safety of lives. But he wanted to put the Prince's
mind at ease; and with a proper amount of emphasis he said that, being
conscious of some small abilities and confident in his power of work, he
trusted his future to his own exertions. He expressed his gratitude for
the helping hand. Such dangerous situations did not occur twice in the
course of one life--he added.

"And you have met this one with a firmness of mind and correctness
of feeling which give me a high idea of your worth," the Prince said
solemnly. "You have now only to persevere--to persevere."

On getting out on the pavement Razumov saw an ungloved hand extended to
him through the lowered window of the brougham. It detained his own in
its grasp for a moment, while the light of a street lamp fell upon the
Prince's long face and old-fashioned grey whiskers.

"I hope you are perfectly reassured now as to the consequences..."

"After what your Excellency has condescended to do for me, I can only
rely on my conscience."

"_Adieu_," said the whiskered head with feeling.

Razumov bowed. The brougham glided away with a slight swish in the
snow--he was alone on the edge of the pavement.

He said to himself that there was nothing to think about, and began
walking towards his home.

He walked quietly. It was a common experience to walk thus home to bed
after an evening spent somewhere with his fellows or in the cheaper
seats of a theatre. After he had gone a little way the familiarity of
things got hold of him. Nothing was changed. There was the familiar
corner; and when he turned it he saw the familiar dim light of the
provision shop kept by a German woman. There were loaves of stale bread,
bunches of onions and strings of sausages behind the small window-panes.
They were closing it. The