spirit! That unnerves them! They are afraid of catastrophes and revolutions. And thus our whole poetry flows in a conservative stream!” He threw the book down on the bench.
“What good is it to us?” he said more quietly, measuring Lucy with his eyes. Her expression evidently told him that there was much she did not understand.
But her eyes were sparkling with delight. That voice sounded pleasant to her, and it seemed to her to be true and convincing, and so she was absclutely sure that all this was the truth. . . .
“Hide yourself,” he suddenly whispered to her, pointing to the bench on which he was sitting. Lucy looked around her and at once sat down. The steps of two persons were heard upon the sand,—the heads were already visible: one belonged to the slender blonde, the daughter of the tax collector, the other to Jiří. He was looking into her face, and she was glancing sideways,—a girl’s
