‘No; I’m all right; and it’s nothing mysterious either. I specially wanted to tell you ... the impression made on me by your betrothed ... she is betrothed to you, I think?... well, anyway, by the girl to whom you introduced me to-day. I must say that in the course of my whole existence I have never met a more attractive creature. A heart of gold, a really angelic nature.’ Potugin uttered all these words with the same bitter and mournful air, so that even Litvinov could not help noticing the incongruity between his expression of face and his speech. ‘You have formed a perfectly correct estimate of Tatyana Petrovna,’ Litvinov began, ‘though I can’t help being surprised, first that you should be aware of the relation in which I stand to her; and secondly, that you should have understood her so quickly. She really has an angelic nature; but allow me to ask, did you want to talk to me about this?’ ‘It’s impossible not to understand her at once,’ Potugin replied quickly, as though evading the last question. ‘One need only take one look into her eyes. She deserves every possible happiness on earth, and enviable is the fate of the man whose lot it is to give her that happiness! One must hope he may prove worthy of such a fate.’ Litvinov frowned slightly. ‘Excuse me, Sozont Ivanitch,’ he said, ‘I must confess our conversation strikes me as altogether rather original.... I should like to know, does the hint contained in your words refer to me?’ Potugin did not at once answer Litvinov; he was visibly struggling with himself. ‘Grigory Mihalitch,’ he began at last, ‘either I am completely mistaken in you, or you are capable of hearing the truth, from whomsoever it may come, and in however unattractive a form it may present itself. I told you just now, that I saw where you came from.’ ‘Why, from the _Hôtel de l’Europe_. What of that?’ ‘I know, of course, whom you have been to see there.’ ‘What?’ ‘You have been to see Madame Ratmirov.’ ‘Well, I have been to see her. What next?’ ‘What next?... You, betrothed to Tatyana Petrovna, have been to see Madame Ratmirov, whom you love ... and who loves you.’ Litvinov instantly got up from the seat; the blood rushed to his head. ‘What’s this?’ he cried at last, in a voice of concentrated exasperation: ‘stupid jesting, spying? Kindly explain yourself.’ Potugin turned a weary look upon him. ‘Ah! don’t be offended at my words. Grigory Mihalitch, me you cannot offend. I did not begin to talk to you for that, and I’m in no joking humour now.’ ‘Perhaps, perhaps. I’m ready to believe in the excellence of your intentions; but still I may be allowed to ask you by what right you meddle in the private affairs, in the inner life, of another man, a man who is nothing to you; and what grounds you have for so confidently giving out your own ... invention for the truth?’