love him, but I obey you. He's dearer to me . . . but you're nearer.'
Solomin cautiously stroked her hand with his.
'This . . . is a most unpleasant affair,' he observed at last. 'If Markelov's mixed up in it—he's lost.'
Marianna shuddered.
'Lost?'
'Yes. . . . He does nothing by halves, and he won't hide behind others.'
'Lost!' murmured Marianna again, and the tears ran down her face. 'O Vassily Fedotitch! I am very sorry for him. But why can't he be victorious? Why must he inevitably be lost?'
'Because in such undertakings, Marianna, the first always perish, even if they succeed. . . . And in the work he's, plotting for, not only the first and the second, but even the tenth . . . and the twentieth.'
'Then we shall never live to see it?'
'What you are dreaming of? Never. With our eyes we shall never look upon it; with these living eyes. In the spirit . . . to be sure, that's a different matter. We may gratify ourselves by the sight of it that way now, at once. There's no restriction there.'
'Then how is it you, Solomin———
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