“To return,” she said tragically.
“If he returns alone, what of it?”
“He may catch me.”
“That doesn't follow. We may catch him instead.”
Her eyes grew long and narrow like a cat's. “What would we do with him?” she asked softly.
He regarded her warily. “He told me he loved you,” he said irrelevantly.
“Love wouldn't stand in his way—nothing personal. For what he holds to be right, he'd mutilate himself. He'd kill the thing he loved best.” She sank her voice. “We all would.”
“All—” He paused and began again. “With idealists like the Major, yourself and Varensky, human relations don't count. That was what you were trying to tell me, wasn't it? To achieve individual ideals, you'd sacrifice your own and everybody's happiness.”
Her expression became wooden as an idol's.
“You'd sacrifice mine, for instance?”