le
enough--there are plenty of that type everywhere. But unfortunately for
him he's a very clever man, and like every Russian both a cynic and an
idealist--a cynic in facts _because_ he's an idealist. He got everything
so easily all through his life that his cynicism grew and grew. He had
wealth and women and position. He was as strong as a horse. Every 'one
gave way to him and he despised everybody. He went to the Front, and one
day came across a woman different from any other whom he had ever
known."

"How different?" asked Bohun, because I paused.

"Different in that she was simpler and naiver and honester and better
and more beautiful--"

"Better than Vera?" Bohun asked.

"Different," I said. "She was younger, less strong-willed, less clever,
less passionate perhaps. But alone--alone, in all the world. Every one
must love her--No one could help it...."

I broke off again. Bohun waited.

I went on. "Semyonov saw her and snatched her from the Englishman to
whom she was engaged. I don't think she ever really loved the
Englishman, but she loved Semyonov."

"Well?" said Bohun.

"She was killed. A stray shot, when she was giving tea to the men in the
trenches.... It meant a lot... to all of us. The Englishman was killed
too, so he was all right. I think Semyonov would have liked that same
end; but he didn't get it, so he's remained desolate. Really desolate,
in a way that only your thorough sensualist can be. A beautiful fruit
just within his grasp, something at last that can tempt his jaded
appetite. He's just going to taste it, when whisk! it's gone, and gone,
perhaps, into some one else's hands. How does he know? How does he know
anything? There may be another life--who can really prove there isn't?
and when you've seen something in the very thick and glow of existence,
something more alive than life itself, and, click! it's gone--well, it
_must_ have gone somewhere, mustn't it? Not the body only, but that
soul, that spirit, that individual personal expression of beauty and
purity and loveliness? Oh, it must be somewhere yet!... It _must_ be!...
At any rate _he_ didn't know. And he didn't know either that she might
not have proved his idealism right after all. Ah! to your cynic there's
nothing more maddening! Do you think your cynic loves his cynicism? Not
a bit of it! Not he! But he won't be taken in by sham any more. That he
swears....

"So it was with Semyonov. This girl might have proved the one real
e