was not afraid of strange women, and no feeling of false delicacy
could prevent him from striking an acquaintance with a woman
apparently very much intoxicated. Comrade Ossipon was interested
in women. He held up this one between his two large palms, peering
at her in a business-like way till he heard her say faintly “Mr
Ossipon!” and then he very nearly let her drop to the ground.
“Mrs Verloc!” he exclaimed. “You here!”
It seemed impossible to him that she should have been drinking.
But one never knows. He did not go into that question, but
attentive not to discourage kind fate surrendering to him the widow
of Comrade Verloc, he tried to draw her to his breast. To his
astonishment she came quite easily, and even rested on his arm for
a moment before she attempted to disengage herself. Comrade
Ossipon would not be brusque with kind fate. He withdrew his arm
in a natural way.
“You recognised me,” she faltered out, standing before him, fairly
steady on her legs.
“Of course I did,” said Ossipon with perfect readiness. “I was
afraid you were going to fall. I’ve thought of you too often
lately not to recognise you anywhere, at any time. I’ve always
thought of you – ever since I first set eyes on you.”
Mrs Verloc seemed not to hear. “You were coming to the shop?” she
said nervously.
“Yes; at once,” answered Ossipon. “Directly I read the paper.”
In fact, Comrade Ossipon had been skulking for a good two hours in
the neighbourhood of Brett Street, unable to make up his mind for a
bold move. The robust anarchist was not exactly a bold conqueror.
He remembered that Mrs Verloc had never responded to his glances by
the slightest sign of encouragement. Besides, he thought the shop
might be watched by the police, and Comrade Ossipon did not wish
the police to form an exaggerated notion of his revolutionary
sympathies. Even now he did not know precisely what to do. In
comparison with his usual amatory speculations this was a big and
serious undertaking. He ignored how much there was in it and how
far he would have to go in order to get hold of what there was to
get – supposing there was a chance at all. These perplexities
checking his elation imparted to his tone a soberness well in
keeping with the circumstances.
“May I ask you where you were going?” he inquired in a subdued
voice.
“Don’t ask me!” cried Mrs Verloc with a shuddering, repressed
violence. All her strong vitality recoiled from the idea of death.
“Never mind where I was going. . . .”
Ossipon concluded that she was very much excited but perfectly
sober. She remained silent by his side for moment, then all at
once she did something which he did not expect. She slipped her
hand under his arm. He was startled by the act itself certainly,
and quite as much too by the palpably resolute character of this
movement. But this being a delicate affair, Comrade Ossipon
behaved with delicacy. He contented himself by pressing the hand
slightly against his robust ribs. At the same time he felt himself
being impelled forward, and yielded to the impulse. At the end of
Brett Street he became aware of being directed to the left. He
submitted.
The fruiterer at the corner had put out the blazing glory of his
oranges and lemons, and Brett Place was all darkness, interspersed
with the misty halos of the few lamps defining its triangular
shape, with a cluster of three lights on one stand in the middle.
The dark forms of the man and woman glided slowly arm in arm along
the walls with a loverlike and homeless aspect in the miserable
night.
“What would you say if I were to tell you that I was going to find
you?” Mrs Verloc asked, gripping his arm with force.
“I would say that you couldn’t find anyone more ready to help you
in your trouble,” answered Ossipon, with a notion of making
tremendous headway. In fact, the progress of this delicate affair
was almost taking his breath away.
“In my trouble!” Mrs Verloc repeated slowly.