The expression of her face was grave, intent; so grave that Razumov, after approaching her close, felt obliged to smile. She greeted him with a manly hand-grasp.
“What! Are you going away?” she exclaimed. “How is that, Razumov?”
“I am going away because I haven’t been asked to stay,” Razumov answered, returning the pressure of her hand with much less force than she had put into it.
She jerked her head sideways like one who understands. Meantime Razumov’s eyes had strayed after the two men. They were crossing the grass-plot obliquely, without haste. The shorter of the two was buttoned up in a narrow overcoat of some thin grey material, which came nearly to his heels. His companion, much taller and broader, wore a short, close-fitting jacket and tight trousers tucked into shabby top-boots.
The woman, who had sent them out of Razumov’s way apparently, spoke in a businesslike voice.
“I had to come rushing from Zurich on purpose to meet the train and take these two along here to see Peter Ivanovitch. I’ve just managed it.”
“Ah! indeed,” Razumov said perfunctorily, and very vexed at her staying behind to talk to him “From Zurich—yes, of course. And these two, they come from....”
She interrupted, without emphasis—
“From quite another direction. From a distance, too. A considerable distance.”
Razumov shrugged his shoulders. The two men from a distance, after having reached the wall of the terrace, disappeared suddenly at its foot as if the earth had opened to swallow them up.