“Yes. Something of the kind. Fifteen years of a life like his make changes in a man. Lonely, like a crow in a strange country. When I think of Yakovlitch before he went to America—”
The softness of the low tone caused Razumov to glance at her sideways. She sighed; her black eyes were looking away; she had plunged the fingers of her right hand deep into the mass of nearly white hair, and stirred them there absently. When she withdrew her hand the little hat perched on the top of her head remained slightly tilted, with a queer inquisitive effect, contrasting strongly with the reminiscent murmur that escaped her.
“We were not in our first youth even then. But a man is a child always.”
Razumov thought suddenly, “They have been living together.” Then aloud—
“Why didn’t you follow him to America?” he asked point-blank.
She looked up at him with a perturbed air.
“Don’t you remember what was going on fifteen years ago? It was a time of activity. The Revolution has its history by this time. You are in it and yet you don’t seem to know it. Yakovlitch went away then on a mission; I went back to Russia. It had to be so. Afterwards there was nothing for him to come back to.”
“Ah! indeed,” muttered Razumov, with affected surprise. “Nothing!”
“What are you trying to insinuate” she exclaimed quickly. “Well, and what then if he did get discouraged a little....”
“He looks like a Yankee, with that goatee hanging from his chin. A regular Uncle Sam,” growled Razumov. “Well, and you? You who went to Russia? You did not get discouraged.”