When the President's eyes were on him he felt as if he were made of glass.

He had hardly the shred of a doubt that in some silent and extraordinary way Sunday had found out that he was a spy.

He looked over the edge of the balcony, and saw a policeman, standing abstractedly just beneath, staring at the bright railings and the sunlit trees.
Then there fell upon him the great temptation that was to torment him for many days.

In the presence of these powerful and repulsive men, who were the princes of anarchy, he had almost forgotten the frail and fanciful figure of the poet Gregory, the mere aesthete of anarchism.
He even thought of him now with an old kindness, as if they had played together when children.

But he remembered that he was still tied to Gregory by a great promise.