“By Jove,” Pavel went on, “you are so changed I came near letting you pass. Why, what has become of your bulk, old boy? Have you been ill?”
“Not exactly,” the other answered, leading the way indoors; then, as his face broke into an expression of wan joy, he added: “Been in love, devil wrench it. I take these things rather too hard, I suppose, but that’s a small matter. How have you been? Climbing upward in the service of the revolution, aren’t you?”
The room was the same. The huge tin samovar stood on the floor.
“Well, and how is your Circle? First-rate fellows all of them,” Pavel said.
“Yes, indeed. Only we miss Clara now more than ever.”
“Anything specially the matter?” Pavel asked, colouring slightly.
“Well, it really used to be a splendid circle—in our humble way, that is—but those riots have had a bad effect on us, deuce take it. Remember Elkin? It was he who got us together, and now it’s he who has brought discord into our ranks. He is organising people who want to go to America. This is his hobby now.”
“Why, have the riots knocked all his socialism out of him?” Pavel asked, grimly.
“Oh, no,” Orlovsky answered with something like dismay. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s as an organiser of communistic colonies that he is going to emigrate. Only he says the Jewish people have a more direct claim upon him than Russia.”