Paul didn't like that, and took refuge behind one of those Slavonic indirections which are typical of the Russian mind—an indirection hinting at mysterious purpose and power.
"There are times in a life," said he, "when it becomes necessary to speak a foreign language well."
They looked at each other then, and simultaneously they nodded.
"You are right, batuchka," said the blonde giant at last, matching indirection with indirection. "For myself, I cannot speak English well—ah, no—but I have a language that all men understand—and fear—and when I speak, the houses fall and the mountains shake their heads."
His eyes gleamed and he breathed quickly—intoxicated by the poetry of his own words; but Paul had heard too much of that sort of imagery to be impressed.
"A Bolshevist, sure enough," he thought.
A familiar landscape outside attracted his attention.
"We'll be there in a few minutes," he thought. "Yes, there's the road … and there's the lower bridge…. I hope that old place at the bend of the river's still there. I'll take a walk down this afternoon, and see."
At the station he noted that his late companion was being greeted by a group of friends who had evidently come to meet him. Paul stood for a few minutes on the platform, unrecognized, unheeded, jostled by the throng.
"The prodigal son returns," he sighed, and slowly crossed the square….