PIKE.  How’s that.

VASILI [significantly].  I see how a son of that great democracy can apply himself to a dirty machine, while his eyes are full of visions of one of its beautiful daughters.

PIKE [slowly and sadly, peering into the machine].  Doc, there’s sand in your gear-box.

VASILI [laughing].  So?

PIKE.  You go down to the kitchen and make signs for some of the help to give you a nice clean bunch of rags.

VASILI [surprised into hauteur].  What is it you ask me to do?

PIKE.  I need some more rags.

VASILI [amused].  My friend, I obey.

[Makes a mock-serious bow and starts.]

PIKE.  I won’t leave the machine—­’twouldn’t be safe.

VASILI [halting, laughs].  You fear this famous bandit would steal it?

PIKE.  No; but there’s parties around here might think it was a settlement.

VASILI.  I do not understand.

PIKE [chuckling].  Doc, that’s where we’re in the same fix.

VASILI.  Weidersehn, my friend.

[Exit into hotel.]

[PIKE kneels on the foot-board of machine above gear-box, begins to clean, using an old rag, singing “Sweet Genevieve.”  A distant shot is heard.  PIKE looks up at this, ceasing to sing.  Then he continues his work and music.  LADY CREECH leans out from her window, staring off to the right with opera-glasses.  There is a noise at the gates as some one hastily but cautiously tries to open them.  PIKE looks up again, turns toward the gates, and, after a short pause, again begins to sing and work, but very softly.]

[IVANOFF appears on top of the wall at back, climbing up cautiously from lane below.  He creeps from the wall to the top of pergola and cautiously along that through the foliage to above PIKE.  He peers over the foliage at PIKE.]

[PIKE looks up slowly, and, as slowly, stops “Sweet Genevieve,” his voice fading away on a half syllable as he encounters IVANOFF’S gaze.  They stare at each other, LADY CREECH observing unseen.]

[IVANOFF is a thin, very fragile-looking man of thirty-eight.  His disordered hair is prematurely gray, his beard is a grizzled four days’ stubble.  He is exceedingly haggard and worn, but has the face and look of a man of refinement and cultivation.  He has lost his hat; his shoes and trousers are splashed with dried mud, and brambles cling to him here and there.  He wears a soiled white shirt and collar, and a torn black tie, black waistcoat and trousers.  He is covered with dust from head to foot; one sleeve of his shirt has been torn off at the elbow.  He wears no coat.]

IVANOFF [in a voice tremulous with tragic appeal].  Et ce que vous etes un homme de bon coeur?  Je ne suis pas coupable—­

PIKE [very gravely].  There ain’t any use in the world your talkin’ to me like that!

IVANOFF [panting].  You are an Englishman?

PIKE [quietly, rising and stepping back].  That’ll do for that. You come down from there!