She was silent, looking towards him with her brave, steady eyes.
“Agony of heart?” Androvsky said, recurring to her words. “You think—what—you pity that man then?”
“And don’t you?”
“I—what has he to do with—us? Why should we—?”
“I know. But one does sometimes pity men one never has seen, never will see, if one hears something frightful about them. Perhaps—don’t smile, Boris—perhaps it was seeing that liqueur, which he had actually made in the monastery when he was at peace with God, perhaps it was seeing that, that has made me realise—such trifles stir the imagination, set it working—at any rate—”
She broke off. After a minute, during which he said nothing, she continued:
“I believe the priest felt something of the same sort. He could not drink the liqueur that man had made, although he intended to.”
“But—that might have been for a different reason,” Androvsky said in a harsh voice; “priests have strange ideas. They often judge things cruelly, very cruelly.”
“Perhaps they do. Yes; I can imagine that Father Roubier of Beni-Mora might, though he is a good man and leads a saintly life.”
“Those are sometimes the most cruel. They do not understand.”