Shatov told her about Kirillov briefly. She had heard something of him.

“I know he is mad; say no more, please; there are plenty of fools. So you’ve been in America? I heard, you wrote.”

“Yes, I⁠ ⁠… I wrote to you in Paris.”

“Enough, please talk of something else. Are you a Slavophil in your convictions?”

“I⁠ ⁠… I am not exactly.⁠ ⁠… Since I cannot be a Russian, I became a Slavophil.” He smiled a wry smile with the effort of one who feels he has made a strained and inappropriate jest.

“Why, aren’t you a Russian?”

“No, I’m not.”