At last he lost control over himself.
“You are playing with fire, Clara,” he said, lingering by the bench.
“I suppose that’s what you want to speak to me about,” she answered with calm earnestness, “but this is hardly the place for a discussion of this sort, Volodia.”[B]
“If you want me to go home you had better say so in so many words. The high-minded interests you are cultivating are scarcely compatible with shyness or lack of frankness, Clara.”
“Don’t be foolish, Volodia. You know you will make fun of yourself for having spoken like that.”
“I didn’t mean to say anything harsh, Clara. But this thing is scarcely ever out of my mind. It’s a terrible fate you have chosen.”
“How do you know I have?” she asked in a meditative tone that implied assent.
“How do I know? Can’t we have a frank, honest talk for once, Clara? Let us go somewhere.”
“We can talk here. To be on the safe side of it, let us talk in Yiddish.”
He made a grimace of repugnance, and seating himself on the bench he went on in nervous Russian.