"I daresay you have the social revolutionary jargon by heart well
enough," he said contemptuously. "Vox et. . . You haven't ever studied
Latin--have you?"

"No," growled Mr Verloc. "You did not expect me to know it. I belong to
the million. Who knows Latin? Only a few hundred imbeciles who aren't
fit to take care of themselves."

For some thirty seconds longer Mr Vladimir studied in the mirror the
fleshy profile, the gross bulk, of the man behind him. And at the same
time he had the advantage of seeing his own face, clean-shaved and round,
rosy about the gills, and with the thin sensitive lips formed exactly for
the utterance of those delicate witticisms which had made him such a
favourite in the very highest society. Then he turned, and advanced into
the room with such determination that the very ends of his quaintly old-
fashioned bow necktie seemed to bristle with unspeakable menaces. The
movement was so swift and fierce that Mr Verloc, casting an oblique
glance, quailed inwardly.

"Aha! You dare be impudent," Mr Vladimir began, with an amazingly
guttural intonation not only utterly un-English, but absolutely
un-European, and startling even to Mr Verloc's experience of cosmopolitan
slums. "You dare! Well, I am going to speak plain English to you. Voice
won't do. We have no use for your voice. We don't want a voice. We
want facts--startling facts--damn you," he added, with a sort of
ferocious discretion, right into Mr Verloc's face.

"Don't you try to come over me with your Hyperborean manners," Mr Verloc
defended himself huskily, looking at the carpet. At this his