"
She spoke with energy, but in a matter-of-fact tone. Razumov's attention
had wandered away on a track of its own--outside the bars of the
gate--but not out of earshot. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his
coat.
"Rot or burn! Powerfully stated. Painted or unpainted. Very vigorous.
Painted or...Do tell me--she would be infernally jealous of him,
wouldn't she?"
"Who? What? The Baroness? Eleanor Maximovna? Jealous of Peter
Ivanovitch? Heavens! Are these the questions the man's mind is running
on? Such a thing is not to be thought of."
"Why? Can't a wealthy old woman be jealous? Or, are they all pure
spirits together?"
"But what put it into your head to ask such a question?" she wondered.
"Nothing. I just asked. Masculine frivolity, if you like."
"I don't like," she retorted at once. "It is not the time to be
frivolous. What are you flinging your very heart against? Or, perhaps,
you are only playing a part."
Razumov had felt that woman's observation of him like a physical
contact, like a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. At that moment he
received the mysterious impression of her having made up her mind for a
closer grip. He stiffened himself inwardly to bear it without betraying
himself.
"Playing a Part," he repeated, presenting to her an unmoved profile.
Pages:
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322