of outcasts—a sort of pariah in the world that should have been his own.
At the door of one of the tents, he recognized Sokoleff. The Ukranian had let his beard grow and he held a child of two in his arms—a child with great hollow eyes and blue lips. Sokoleff, who was always drunk and laughing, was sober now, with a look of misery in his eyes. Philip shook his free hand in silence, and then said, "You heard about Krylenko?"
"No, I ain't heard nothin'. I've been waitin' for him. I gotta tell him a piece of bad news."
"He's gone away."
"Where's he gone?"
Philip told him, and, after a silence, Sokoleff said, "I suppose he had to beat it. I suppose he had to . . . but what are we gonna do . . . the ones that's left. He's the only one with a brain. The rest of us ain't good for nothin'. We ain't even got money to get drunk on."
"He won't forget you."
"Oh, it's all right for him. He ain't got nobody . . . no children or a wife. He ain't even got a girl . . . now."
For a moment the single word "now," added carelessly after a pause, meant nothing to Philip, and then suddenly a terrible suspicion took possession of him. He looked at Sokoleff. "What d'you mean . . . now?"
"Ain't you heard it?"
"What?"
"It was his girl, Giulia . . . that was killed last night."
