but translated and therefore read by at least some Englishmen. The sense of being in arms against an onslaught already achieved, filled her with despair. The enemy was far away, inaccessibly gone forward spreading more poison. She turned furiously on Mr. Shatov. She could not disprove the lie; but at least he should not sit there near her, holding it unconcerned.
“I can’t see anything wonderful. It isn’t true,” she said.
“Ah that is very English,” beamed Mr. Shatov.
“It is. Any English person would know that it is not true.”
Mr. Shatov gurgled his laughter. “Ah that is very naive.”
“It may be. That doesn’t make any difference.”
“It makes the difference that you are inexperienced,” he growled gently. That was true. She had no experience. She only knew it was not true. Perhaps it was true. Then life grew bleak again. … It was not true. But it was true for men. Skimmed off the surface, which was all they could see, and set up neatly in forcible quotable words. The rest could not be shown in these clever, neat phrases.