Her shoulders moved slightly.
“One can never tell—in Russia.”
I saw then the shadow of autocracy lying upon Russian lives in their submission or their revolt. I saw it touch her handsome open face nestled in a fur collar and darken her clear eyes that shone upon me brilliantly grey in the murky light of a beclouded, inclement afternoon.
“Let us move on,” she said. “It is cold standing—to-day.”
She shuddered a little and stamped her little feet. We moved briskly to the end of the alley and back to the great gates of the garden.
“Have you told your mother?” I ventured to ask.
“No. Not yet. I came out to walk off the impression of this letter.”
I heard a rustle of paper somewhere. It came from her muff. She had the letter with her in there.
“What is it that you are afraid of?” I asked.
To us Europeans of the West, all ideas of political plots and conspiracies seem childish, crude inventions for the theatre or a novel. I did not like to be more definite in my inquiry.