"An American, Monsieur!" began the Russian, after they had lighted their cigarettes. "It is indeed a far cry from the 'white lights' of Broadway to the Priesthood of Nemi----"
"Ah, you know New York?" asked Rowland.
"I have been there. An extraordinary city--a wonderful people--intensely practical. But you are no nation of dreamers, Monsieur."
"Upon the contrary," replied Rowland, politely. "Were we not dreamers--we should long since have finished disastrously our experiment in individualism. Like you in Russia we dream, Monsieur, but unlike you, our dreams come true."
Khodkine gazed at Rowland with a new interest. Was this smiling American less stupid than he looked?
"Individualism! Yes. You are even slaves to liberty, which has made you the mere creatures of your own desires."
"You are a monarchist, Monsieur Khodkine?" asked Rowland, with an innocent gaze.
"May the good God forbid!" cried Khodkine abruptly. "I am a Russian, of the heart of Russia which throbs with the pulse-beats of humanity. The Czar has fallen, but the era of absolutism in Russia is not yet over."
Rowland shifted his knees and fixed a cool look of inquiry upon Khodkine.
"I am only a soldier, Monsieur," he said. "For a year I have been in a prison camp. As you must see, I am vastly ignorant of what is going on in the world."