As Palla turned into her street, shabby men with hoarse voices were calling an extra and selling the newspaper in question.
She bought one, glanced at the headlines, then, folding it, unlocked her door.
Dinner was announced almost immediately, but she could not touch it.
She sank down on the sofa, still wearing her furs and hat. After a little while she opened her newspaper.
It seemed that a Bolsheviki plot had been discovered to murder the premiers and rulers of the allied nations, and to begin simultaneously in every capital and principal city of Europe and America a reign of murder and destruction.
In fact, according to the account printed in startling type, the Terrorists had already begun their destructive programme in Philadelphia. Half a dozen buildings––private dwellings and one small hotel––had been more or less damaged by bombs. A New York man named Wilding, fairly well known as an impresario, had been killed outright; and a Russian pianist, Vanya Tchernov, who had just arrived in Philadelphia to complete arrangements for a concert to be given by him under Mr. Wilding’s management, had been fatally injured by the collapse of the hotel office which, at that moment, he was leaving in company with Mr. Wilding.
A numbness settled over Palla’s brain. She did not seem to be able to comprehend that this affair concerned Vanya––that this newspaper was telling her that Vanya had been fatally hurt somewhere in Philadelphia.
Hours later, while she was lying on the lounge with her face buried in the cushions, and still wearing her hat and furs, somebody came into the room. And when she turned over she saw it was Ilse.
Palla sat up stupidly, the marks of tears still glistening under her eyes. Ilse picked up the newspaper from the couch, laid it aside, and seated herself.