“The ladies of the party call it Nihilism,” replied the Frenchman, with an inimitable gesture, conveying the fact that he was not the man to gainsay a lady.
“Bukaty would not stoop to that. Remember they are a patient people. They waited thirty years.”
“And struck too hastily, after all,” commented Deulin. “Bukaty would not link himself with these others, who talk so much and do so little. But there are others besides Bukaty, who are younger, and can afford to wait longer, and are therefore less patient—men of a more modern stamp, without his educational advantages, who are nevertheless sincere enough in their way. It may not be a gentlemanly way—”
“The man who goes by the name of Kosmaroff is a gentleman, according to his lights,” interrupted Cartoner.
“Ah! since you say so,” returned Deulin, with a significant gesture, “yes.”
“Bon sang,” said Cartoner, and did not trouble to complete the saying. “He is too much of a gentleman to herd with the extremists.”
But Deulin did not seem to be listening. He was following his own train of thought.
“So you know of Kosmaroff?” he said, studying his companion's face. “You know that, too. What a lot you know behind that dull physiognomy. Where is Kosmaroff? Perhaps you know that.”
“In Warsaw,” guessed Cartoner.
“Wrong. He has gone towards Berlin—towards London, by the same token.”