Both spoke the beautiful English of educated Russians; Vanya Tchernov, a wonderfully handsome youth, saluted Palla’s hand in Continental fashion, and met the men with engaging formality.
Shotwell found himself seated beside Marya Lanois, a lithe, warm, golden creature with greenish golden eyes that slanted, and the strawberry complexion that goes with reddish hair.
“You are happy,” she said, “with all your streets full of bright flags and your victorious soldiers arriving home by every troopship. Ah!––but Russia is the most unhappy of all countries to-day, Mr. Shotwell.”
“It’s terribly sad,” he said sympathetically. “We Americans don’t seem to know whether to send an army to help you, or merely to stand aside and let Russia find herself.”
“You should send troops!” she said. “Is it not so, Ilse?”
“Sane people should unite,” replied the girl, her beautiful face becoming serious. “It will arrive at that the world over––the sane against the insane.”
“And it is only the bourgeoisie that is sane,” said Vanya Tchernov, in his beautifully modulated voice. “The extremes are both abnormal––aristocrats and Bolsheviki alike.”
“We social revolutionists,” said Marya Lanois, “were called extremists yesterday and are called reactionists to-day. But we are the world’s balance. This war was fought for our ideals; your American soldiers marched for them: the hun failed because of them.”
“And there remains only one more war,” said Ilse Westgard,––“the war against those outlaws we call Capital and Labour––two names for two robbers that have disturbed the world’s peace long enough!”