“Oh!” she said dully, “this is Siberia; this is terrible!”
It had never presented itself to him in that light, the wonderful stretch of country over which they were looking.
“It is not so bad,” he said, “in the daylight.”
And that was all; for he had no persuasive tongue.
“That is the village,” he went on, after a little pause. “Those are the people who look to us to help them in their fight against terrible odds. I hoped—that you would be interested in them.”
She looked down curiously at the little wooden huts, half-buried in the snow; the smoking chimneys; the twinkling, curtainless windows.
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked in a queer voice.
He looked at her in a sort of wonderment. Perhaps it seemed to him that a woman should have no need to ask such a question.
“It is a long story,” he said; “I will tell you about it another time. You are tired now, after your journey.”
His arm slipped from her waist. They stood side by side. And both were conscious of a feeling of difference. They were not the same as they had been in London. The atmosphere of Russia seemed to have had some subtle effect upon them.