He flung his arms apart grotesquely; they formed with his body the shape of a cross. The fire of fanaticism blazed in his eyes. “To-morrow I shall be crucified.” He drew a shuddering breath.
“A born actor!” was Hindwood's silent comment—“An egoist who craves the lime-light.”
And yet, to his chagrin, he found himself impressed. He was so deeply stirred that he dared not trust himself to speak for a moment; when he did, it was with calculated coldness.
“You think only of yourself. It's not you alone; even those of us who make no claim to be God's instruments, stand more than a sporting chance of being crucified, as you call it. There are Santa and Anna, for instance; there's the collection of wretched down-and-outs gathered in this building; there are the scarecrows I saw in the death train; there are all the teeming swarms of human lice crawling westward along a thousand roads. In the presence of an agony so widespread, I can't muster a tear for your individual tragedy. It's no time for theatrics.”
For an instant Varensky's gaunt face quivered. Making an effort, with an air of mocking courtliness he mastered his injured pride.
“I was mistaken and I ask your pardon. We all have our plans to make ahead. I supposed you were here to ascertain approximately the hour at which I proposed to—— Shall we say, depart?”
“You were badly mistaken,” Hindwood cut in contemptuously. “I'm here to find out if there's any possible way in which we can save the situation.”
“We!”
Varensky stared. He became rigid as though he were carved from marble. “We!” he repeated haughtily.
While Hindwood was searching for a clue to his amazement, his next words supplied it.