The Scorn of a Woman

"Who was that man?" she asked.

"Alexis Saberevski."

She nodded.

"I know him," she said simply.

"In coming to St. Petersburg and seeking audience with his majesty,
acting thereby under the suggestion made by my friend, I proposed to
the czar the organization of a certain band of men whose duty it has
been, and is, and will continue to be until it is successful, to drive
organized nihilism out of Russia."

"You can never do that," said Zara, with fine contempt.

"I can do it. It shall be done."

She tore herself from my grasp and leaped to her feet, darting across
the room and placing the table between us, with a motion so quick that
she was beyond my reach before I could detain her. I had expected from
her violent action, an outburst of words; but it did not come. Instead,
she stood calmly beyond the table, leaning gently upon it with one
hand, and gazed across the space that separated us, while she said,
coolly, and not without contempt: "Complete your story, Dubravnik. It interests me. I shall be glad
indeed to hear it, finding as I now do, that I have permitted myself to
fall in love with a professional spy."

God! how her tone hurt me! How the words she uttered pierced me! How
the contemptuous scorn in her voice and manner, tore to shreds the
fabric of a beatific existence I had created in my imagination! A
moment ago, confident of her love, her admiration, and her esteem, I
saw now, when it was too late, that the very announcement of my
profession had destroyed it, with a stroke as deadly as the knife of an
assassin in the heart of his victim.