Burski laughed. “That illustrates one of my pet theories,” he said; “that you English are sometimes a most changeable and impulsive people.”
“I am not interested in your theories about my countrymen.”
“Oh, I won’t force them on you. I hate a man who is always cramming his views down your throat. He’s a bore—the poorest sort of creature in the world. Which way shall we walk?”
“All ways are the same to me.”
“Let us stroll on then. It will take us to the Church of St. Paul.”
I was so angry, so perplexed how to shake him off, and at the same time so anxious to get to Volna that I would not trust myself to speak. Every minute of delay increased the risk that she might tire of waiting—or jump to the conclusion that I could not keep the appointment—and go back to the house where I knew Bremenhof’s men might already be waiting for her.
Burski acted as though he saw nothing of my uneasiness. He chatted away quite unconcernedly, calling my attention now to a church and again to some public building; and accepting my monosyllabic surly replies with unruffled complacency.
Once chance offered of getting away. A great crowd of strikers came marching past, filling the roadway, and as the accompanying mob of stragglers surged on to the footpath, I was about to plunge into the midst of their ranks when he slipped his arm into mine and drew me back into a doorway.
“For Heaven’s sake be careful,” he cried. “The scum of the city is there, and your very life might be in danger.”
It appeared as though he might well be right; but I could have cursed him for his forethought all the same.