Trirodov regarded her with a deep, tranquil glance and answered her with the usual commonplaces of welcome.
Slightly agitated by hidden desires, Alkina spoke of the “business” in hand.
It had already been decided that the party orator who was to come to speak at the projected mass meeting would be quartered at Trirodov’s: this was thought to be the least dangerous place. Alkina came to say that the orator was expected that evening. It was necessary to bring him to Trirodov’s house in such a way that the town should not know anything about it. As soon as they had decided at what entrance he should be received Trirodov went out of the room to make the necessary arrangements. The agreeable consciousness of creative mystery filled him with joy.
When Trirodov returned Alkina was standing at the table and turning over the pages of a new book. Her hands trembled slightly. She glanced expectantly at Trirodov. She appeared to wish to say something meaningful and tender—but instead she resumed her remarks on business. She told him what was new in town, in her school, in the organization—about the confiscation of the local newspaper, about personalities ordered to leave town by the police, about the factory ferment.
“Who will be our own speakers at the mass meeting?” asked Trirodov.
“Bodeyev, from the school, for one.”
“I do not like his manner of speaking,”, said Trirodov.
“He’s a good party workman,” observed Alkina with a timid smile. “He’s to be valued for that.”
“You know, of course, that I am not much of a party man,” said Trirodov.
Alkina was silent. She trembled lightly as she rose from her seat, then suddenly ceased to be agitated. Only her vivid lips, speaking slowly, seemed to be alive in her pale face.