‘Why did I say that to her?’ Litvinov thought the next morning as he sat in his room at the window. He shrugged his shoulders in vexation: he had said that to Tatyana simply to cut himself off all way of retreat. In the window lay a note from Irina: she asked him to see her at twelve. Potugin’s words incessantly recurred to his mind, they seemed to reach him with a faint ill-omened sound as of a rumbling underground. He was angry with himself, but could not get rid of them anyhow. Some one knocked at the door. ‘_Wer da?_’ asked Litvinov. ‘Ah! you’re at home! open!’ he heard Bindasov’s hoarse bass. The door handle creaked. Litvinov turned white with exasperation. ‘I’m not at home,’ he declared sharply. ‘Not at home? That’s a good joke!’ ‘I tell you--not at home, get along.’ ‘That’s civil! And I came to ask you for a little loan,’ grumbled Bindasov. He walked off, however, tramping on his heels as usual. Litvinov was all but dashing out after him, he felt such a longing to throttle the hateful ruffian. The events of the last few days had unstrung his nerves; a little more, and he would have burst into tears. He drank off a glass of cold water, locked up all the drawers in the furniture, he could not have said why, and went to Tatyana’s. He found her alone. Kapitolina Markovna had gone out shopping. Tatyana was sitting on the sofa, holding a book in both hands. She was not reading it, and scarcely knew what book it was. She did not stir, but her heart was beating quickly in her bosom, and the little white collar round her neck quivered visibly and evenly. Litvinov was confused.... However, he sat down by her, said good-morning, smiled at her; she too smiled at him without speaking. She had bowed to him when he came in, bowed courteously, not affectionately, and she did not glance at him. He held out his hand to her; she gave him her chill fingers, but at once freed them again, and took up the book. Litvinov felt that to begin the conversation with unimportant subjects would be insulting Tatyana; she after her custom made no demands, but everything in her said plainly, ‘I am waiting, I am waiting.’... He must fulfil his promise. But though almost the whole night he had thought of nothing else, he had not prepared even the first introductory words, and absolutely did not know in what way to break this cruel silence. ‘Tanya,’ he began at last, ‘I told you yesterday that I have something important to say to you. I am ready, only I beg you beforehand not to be angry against me, and to rest assured that my feelings for you....’ He stopped. He caught his breath. Tatyana still did not stir, and did not look at him; she only clutched the book tighter than ever.