“You men are all alike.  You mistake luck for merit.  You do it in good faith too!  I would not be too hard on you.  It’s masculine nature.  You men are ridiculously pitiful in your aptitude to cherish childish illusions down to the very grave.  There are a lot of us who have been at work for fifteen years—­I mean constantly—­trying one way after another, underground and above ground, looking neither to the right nor to the left!  I can talk about it.  I have been one of these that never rested....  There!  What’s the use of talking....  Look at my grey hairs!  And here two babies come along—­I mean you and Haldin—­you come along and manage to strike a blow at the very first try.”

At the name of Haldin falling from the rapid and energetic lips of the woman revolutionist, Razumov had the usual brusque consciousness of the irrevocable.  But in all the months which had passed over his head he had become hardened to the experience.  The consciousness was no longer accompanied by the blank dismay and the blind anger of the early days.  He had argued himself into new beliefs; and he had made for himself a mental atmosphere of gloomy and sardonic reverie, a sort of murky medium through which the event appeared like a featureless shadow having vaguely the shape of a man; a shape extremely familiar, yet utterly inexpressive, except for its air of discreet waiting in the dusk.  It was not alarming.

“What was he like?” the woman revolutionist asked unexpectedly.

“What was he like?” echoed Razumov, making a painful effort not to turn upon her savagely.  But he relieved himself by laughing a little while he stole a glance at her out of the corners of his eyes.  This reception of her inquiry disturbed her.

“How like a woman,” he went on.  “What is the good of concerning yourself with his appearance?  Whatever it was, he is removed beyond all feminine influences now.”

A frown, making three folds at the root of her nose, accentuated the Mephistophelian slant of her eyebrows.

“You suffer, Razumov,” she suggested, in her low, confident voice.

“What nonsense!” Razumov faced the woman fairly.  “But now I think of it, I am not sure that he is beyond the influence of one woman at least; the one over there—­Madame de S—­, you know.  Formerly the dead were allowed to rest, but now it seems they are at the beck and call of a crazy old harridan.  We revolutionists make wonderful discoveries.  It is true that they are not exactly our own.  We have nothing of our own.  But couldn’t the friend of Peter Ivanovitch satisfy your feminine curiosity?  Couldn’t she conjure him up for you?”—­he jested like a man in pain.

Her concentrated frowning expression relaxed, and she said, a little wearily, “Let us hope she will make an effort and conjure up some tea for us.  But that is by no means certain.  I am tired, Razumov.”