She pushed the piece of paper into the top drawer of a small desk that stood near her.
“You won’t forget?” Simon asked, anxiously.
“No,” she shook her dark head; “eet may take a little time, but an occasion will come when I can ask Leshkin — ’e may not know ’imself, but ’e will tell me if ’e does.”
“I — er — suppose Kommissar Leshkin is a great friend of yours?” hazarded Simon.
She made a little grimace. “What would you — ’ow. old are you? Twenty-eight; thirty, perhaps; three, four years older than myself — it does not matter. You are a man of the world; you know it, then. All artistes must have a protector; eef I ’ad lived twenty years ago it would ’ave been a Grand Duke; now eet is a Kommissar. What does eet matter; eet is life!”
Simon nodded with much understanding, but he went on quietly probing. “Of course, I realize that, but — er — I mean, is it just a political allience, or are you really friendly?”
“I ’ate ’im,” she said, suddenly, with a flash of her magnificent eyes; “’e is stupid, a bore, ’e ’as no delicacy of feeling, no finesse. In the revolution ’e did terrible things. Sometimes it makes me shudder to think ’ow ’is ’ands they are cover with blood — ’e was what you call ‘Terrorist’ then. It was ’im they send to crush the revolt in the Ukraine; eet was ’orrible that, the people that ’e kill, ’ole batches at a time. Most of those terrorist they are finish now, but not ’im; ’e is cunning, you understand, and strong, that is ’ow ’e keeps ’is place among the others; if ’e ’as any attraction for me, it is ’is strength, I think — but let us not talk of ’im.”
Unfortunately they were not destined to talk of anything else, for raised voices sounded at that moment in the hall outside, the door was thrust violently open, and the big, red-headed Kommissar strode in with a scowl on his face.
Simon got slowly to his feet, and Valeria Petrovna introduced them, recalling to Leshkin their former brief meeting in London.
“How do you do?” said Simon, in his most polite manner.