The flowerbeds were in sight, gleaming in the gaps between the tree trunks along the broad walk … ragged children were shouting and chasing each other round the fountain. “I must always here think,” he said as they passed through the wicket gate “of this man who preaches for the conversion of infidels, Jews, Christians, and other unbelievers.”
She hurried on preparing to face the rows of Saturday afternoon people on the chairs and seats along the avenue, their suspicious English eyes on her scrappy, dowdy, out-of-date English self and her extraordinary looking foreigner. Her spirits lifted. But they must be walking quickly and talking. The staring self-revealing faces must see that it was a privilege to have converse with anyone so utterly strange and far away from their English life.
“I’m not interested in him,” she said as they got into their stride.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know why. I can’t fix my thoughts on him; or any of these people who yell at crowds.” Not quite that; but it made a sentence and fitted with their walk.
“It is perhaps that you are too individualistic,” panted Mr. Shatov. There was no opening in this for an appearance of easy conversation; the words were leaping and barking round her like dogs.
But she turned swiftly leading the way down a winding side path and demanding angrily as soon as they were alone how it was possible to be too individualistic.
“I agree to a certain extent that it is impossible. A man is first himself. But the peril is of being cut off from his fellow creatures.”
“Why peril ? Men descend to meet. Are you a socialist? Do you believe in the opinions of mediocre majorities?”