He turned his head at this imperative appeal and saw the woman revolutionist making the motions of counting money into the palm of her hand.

“That’s what it is.  You see?”

Razumov uttered a slow “I see,” and returned to his prisoner-like gazing upon the neat and shady road.

“Material means must be obtained in some way, and this is easier than breaking into banks.  More certain too.  There!  I am joking....  What is he muttering to himself now?” she cried under her breath.

“My admiration of Peter Ivanovitch’s devoted self-sacrifice, that’s all.  It’s enough to make one sick.”

“Oh, you squeamish, masculine creature.  Sick!  Makes him sick!  And what do you know of the truth of it?  There’s no looking into the secrets of the heart.  Peter Ivanovitch knew her years ago, in his worldly days, when he was a young officer in the Guards.  It is not for us to judge an inspired person.  That’s where you men have an advantage.  You are inspired sometimes both in thought and action.  I have always admitted that when you are inspired, when you manage to throw off your masculine cowardice and prudishness you are not to be equalled by us.  Only, how seldom....  Whereas the silliest woman can always be made of use.  And why?  Because we have passion, unappeasable passion....  I should like to know what he is smiling at?”

“I am not smiling,” protested Razumov gloomily.

“Well!  How is one to call it?  You made some sort of face.  Yes, I know!  You men can love here and hate there and desire something or other—­and you make a great to-do about it, and you call it passion!  Yes!  While it lasts.  But we women are in love with love, and with hate, with these very things I tell you, and with desire itself.  That’s why we can’t be bribed off so easily as you men.  In life, you see, there is not much choice.  You have either to rot or to burn.  And there is not one of us, painted or unpainted, that would not rather burn than rot.”

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.”