"Pray do not. I had an idea that it never snowed in England. This wind is most refreshing."
"I am glad you think so," said Tweed, pushing back his chair as a rush of raw air swept into the apartment. "No doubt a cutting blast like this is a summer breeze to you after your——" He pulled himself up suddenly. That was a subject that he never cared to be the first to open.
There was the rattle of descending iron shutters. They were closing the shop on the ground floor. The white flakes were driving by in dizzying confusion. Almost every cab had an occupant. A hushed roar told of the traffic at Piccadilly Circus.
Stefanovitch said, quietly, "Well, I shall return to Russia."
"You will do nothing of the sort," was the equally quiet reply.
"There is a difference in our cases. You wish to live without love; and I—to me love is life. This silence is not to be endured. Why no response to my letters? I shall wait one more month, and then I shall go to Moscow."
"You dare not! Haven't you seen enough of Russian prisons?"
"More than three years since I set eyes on her," muttered the other; and his face, which bore the marks of much suffering, became all at once haggard with perplexity.
"Three years is a long time and a hard test," argued Tweed.