"Are you afraid of spies?" Olga suddenly asked Klimkov.
"Why?" Yevsey returned dully.
"You started so when you saw him."
Yevsey rubbing his throat vigorously answered without looking at her:
"That was—because I know him, too."
"Aha!" Makarov drawled, smiling.
"Ah, and such a quiet fellow!" exclaimed Yakov.
All now moved more closely around Klimkov as if desiring to hide him from somebody's eyes. He did not understand their exclamations, nor their movements and kind looks. He endeavored to keep quiet, fearing that against his will he would say words that would at once destroy the anxious yet pleasant half-dream of these minutes.
The fresh spring evening approached quietly and benignly, softening sounds and colors. There was a red flush in the sky, and the brass instruments sang a soft pensive strain.
"Well," said Makarov, "are we going to stay here, or are we going home?"