Page:The Career of a Nihilist.djvu/17

Hastily Helen finished her frugal meal at the little Geneva gargotte—the favourite haunt of Russian exiles—and refused a cup of coffee, she had not denied herself this luxury since she was lucky enough to get those Russian pupils, but she was in a hurry to-day. In her pocket lay a long-expected letter from Russia. It had but now been handed to her by the old white-headed watchmaker, to whose address her foreign correspondence came. She was burning with impatience to hand over the precious missive to her friend Andrey, whom it particularly concerned, and to hear such general news as of course it contained.

Exchanging a few words with a fellow-exile, the girl went through the rows of little tables occupied by groups of men in blouses, and passed out into the street. It was only half-past seven; she was sure to find Andrey at home, he lodged close by ; and in five minutes Helen was at his door, her handsome, somewhat cold, face a little flushed by her quick walk.

Andrey was alone, and at work upon a book of statistics, from which he was making extracts for his weekly article in a Russian provincial paper. He turned his head, and rose with outstretched hand to welcome his visitor.

"Here's a letter for you," said Helen, shaking hands.

"Oh," he exclaimed. "At last!"

He was a young man, of six or seven-and-twenty, with an earnest good-natured face, rather regular and firmly cut. His forehead was touched with traces of early cares, and his eyes were unusually thoughtful; but this did not impair the impres-