“Do not think of it, Vera,” I said, endeavouring to console her. “Think of the charming afternoon. Look at that gorgeous butterfly that hovers over the stream; look at its wings, now brown, now purple, with its orange tips and blue eyes, staring like Psyche at her discovered Cupid.” “Ah, yes,” she replied, with a heavy sigh; “but you, a Frenchman, cannot understand one’s social position in Russia.” “Tell me,” I exclaimed with sudden interest; “I have heard and read so much of Nihilism that my curiosity has been aroused, and I’m always eager to improve my knowledge.” “Nihilism!” she repeated in surprise. “Why do you ask me about it? How can I know anything about conspirators?” “But every Russian has a knowledge of the Terrorists.” “Yes, they are everywhere,” she admitted. “And, indeed, I don’t wonder. Wrong a man, deny him all redress, exile him if he complains, gag him if he cries out, strike him in the face if he struggles, and at last he will stab and throw bombs. In the light of facts recently brought to light, Terrorism ceases to be an unnatural or inexplicable phenomenon. Our Government manufactures murderers.” “Are you, then, in favour of the Revolutionists?” I asked, greatly surprised at this expression of opinion in such direct contrast to the views set forth in her various articles. “A Russian never dares to publicly express his or her political convictions. As for me—well, I have ceased to trouble my head about them. In a sense, I am an exile.” What an admirable actress she was; yet how charming! I had not been thinking of her as an accomplished spy, but as a woman who yearned for sympathy and affection. As the sun declined, the river grew more tranquil, and the cawing of the rooks, as they went to bed, told that day was drawing to a close. She offered me a cigarette from her case, and taking one herself, lit them both with the air of an inveterate smoker. What could be more delicious? A balmy breeze, full of the odour of meadow-sweet, a bewitching woman by one’s side, with nothing absolutely to do but admire her eyes and lips, while she discoursed with logical clearness upon the struggle of the Russian people against the iron rule of the Great White Tzar. “I’ve heard of your articles,” I said, after she had been describing incidents in connection with the expulsion of the Jews from Odessa. “Ah, I write sometimes,” she replied. “It is a pleasant and profitable amusement; yet one does not always express one’s real political opinions when writing for the press.” And she laughed lightly. “Had you lived in Russia you would recognise the extreme danger of commenting adversely upon the Government or criticising its administrative exile system.”