Litvinov sat down on a high chest, and hid his face. A feminine fragrance, fresh and delicate, clung about him.... Irina had held his hand in her hands. ‘It’s too much, too much,’ was his thought. The little girl came into the room, and smiling again in response to his agitated glance, said: ‘Kindly come, now----’ He got up, and went out of the hotel. It was no good even to think of returning home: he had to regain his balance first. His heart was beating heavily and unevenly; the earth seemed faintly reeling under his feet. Litvinov turned again along the Lichtenthaler Allee. He realised that the decisive moment had come, that to put it off longer, to dissemble, to turn away, had become impossible, that an explanation with Tatyana had become inevitable; he could imagine how she was sitting there, never stirring, waiting for him ... he could foresee what he would say to her; but how was he to act, how was he to begin? He had turned his back on his upright, well-organised, orderly future; he knew that he was flinging himself headlong into a gulf ... but that did not confound him. The thing was done, but how was he to face his judge? And if only his judge would come to meet him--an angel with a flaming sword; that would be easier for a sinning heart ... instead of which he had himself to plunge the knife in.... Infamous! But to turn back, to abandon that other, to take advantage of the freedom offered him, recognised as his.... No! better to die! No, he would have none of such loathsome freedom ... but would humble himself in the dust, and might those eyes look down on him with love.... ‘Grigory Mihalitch,’ said a melancholy voice, and some one’s hand was laid heavily upon Litvinov. He looked round in some alarm and recognised Potugin. ‘I beg your pardon, Grigory Mihalitch,’ began the latter with his customary humility, ‘I am disturbing you perhaps, but, seeing you in the distance, I thought.... However if you’re not in the humour....’ ‘On the contrary I’m delighted,’ Litvinov muttered between his teeth. Potugin walked beside him. ‘What a lovely evening!’ he began, ‘so warm! Have you been walking long?’ ‘No, not long.’ ‘Why do I ask though; I’ve just seen you come out of the _Hôtel de l’Europe_.’ ‘Then you’ve been following me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You have something to say to me?’ ‘Yes,’ Potugin repeated, hardly audibly. Litvinov stopped and looked at his uninvited companion. His face was pale, his eyes moved restlessly; his contorted features seemed overshadowed by old, long-standing grief. ‘What do you specially want to say to me?’ Litvinov said slowly, and he moved forward. ‘Ah, with your permission ... directly. If it’s all the same to you, let us sit down here on this seat. It will be most convenient.’ ‘Why, this is something mysterious,’ Litvinov declared, seating himself near him. ‘You don’t seem quite yourself, Sozont Ivanitch.’