“He hung his head, biting his lower lip.  A change had come over him, a sort of thoughtful, absorbed calmness.  Nevertheless, he panted.  His sides worked visibly, and his nostrils expanded and collapsed in weird contrast with his sombre aspect of a fanatical monk in a meditative attitude, but with something, too, in his face of an actor intent upon the terrible exigencies of his part.  Before him Horne declaimed, haggard and bearded, like an inspired denunciatory prophet from a wilderness.  Two fanatics.  They were made to understand each other.  Does this surprise you?  I suppose you think that such people would be foaming at the mouth and snarling at each other?”

I protested hastily that I was not surprised in the least; that I thought nothing of the kind; that anarchists in general were simply inconceivable to me mentally, morally, logically, sentimentally, and even physically.  X received this declaration with his usual woodenness and went on.

“Horne had burst out into eloquence.  While pouring out scornful invective, he let tears escape from his eyes and roll down his black beard unheeded.  Sevrin panted quicker and quicker.  When he opened his mouth to speak, everyone hung on his words.

“‘Don’t be a fool, Horne,’ he began.  ’You know very well that I have done this for none of the reasons you are throwing at me.’  And in a moment he became outwardly as steady as a rock under the other’s lurid stare.  ’I have been thwarting, deceiving, and betraying you—­from conviction.’

“He turned his back on Horne, and addressing the girl, repeated the words:  ‘From conviction.’

“It’s extraordinary how cold she looked.  I suppose she could not think of any appropriate gesture.  There can have been few precedents indeed for such a situation.

“‘Clear as daylight,’ he added.  ’Do you understand what that means?  From conviction.’

“And still she did not stir.  She did not know what to do.  But the luckless wretch was about to give her the opportunity for a beautiful and correct gesture.

“‘I have felt in me the power to make you share this conviction,’ he protested, ardently.  He had forgotten himself; he made a step towards her—­perhaps he stumbled.  To me he seemed to be stooping low as if to touch the hem of her garment.  And then the appropriate gesture came.  She snatched her skirt away from his polluting contact and averted her head with an upward tilt.  It was magnificently done, this gesture of conventionally unstained honour, of an unblemished high-minded amateur.

“Nothing could have been better.  And he seemed to think so, too, for once more he turned away.  But this time he faced no one.  He was again panting frightfully, while he fumbled hurriedly in his waistcoat pocket, and then raised his hand to his lips.  There was something furtive in this movement, but directly afterwards his bearing changed.  His laboured breathing gave him a resemblance to a man who had just run a desperate race; but a curious air of detachment, of sudden and profound indifference, replaced the strain of the striving effort.  The race was over.  I did not want to see what would happen next.  I was only too well aware.  I tucked the young lady’s arm under mine without a word, and made my way with her to the stairs.