‘When do you think of going?’ Litvinov said thickly. He remembered that Irina had said the very same words to him not long before. Kapitolina Markovna was darting forward, but Tatyana held her back, with a caressing touch on her shoulder. ‘Probably soon, very soon.’ ‘And will you allow me to ask where you intend going?’ Litvinov said in the same voice. ‘First to Dresden, then probably to Russia.’ ‘But what can you want to know that for now, Grigory Mihalitch?’ ... cried Kapitolina Markovna. ‘Aunt, aunt,’ Tatyana interposed again. A brief silence followed. ‘Tatyana Petrovna,’ began Litvinov, ‘you know how agonisingly painful and bitter my feelings must be at this instant.’ Tatyana got up. ‘Grigory Mihalitch,’ she said, ‘we will not talk about that ... if you please, I beg you for my sake, if not for your own. I have known you long enough, and I can very well imagine what you must be feeling now. But what’s the use of talking, of touching a sore’ (she stopped; it was clear she wanted to stem the emotion rushing upon her, to swallow the rising tears; she succeeded)--‘why fret a sore we cannot heal? Leave that to time. And now I have to ask a service of you, Grigory Mihalitch; if you will be so good, I will give you a letter directly: take it to the post yourself, it is rather important, but aunt and I have no time now.... I shall be much obliged to you. Wait a minute.... I will bring it directly....’ In the doorway Tatyana glanced uneasily at Kapitolina Markovna; but she was sitting with such dignity and decorum, with such a severe expression on her knitted brows and tightly compressed lips, that Tatyana merely gave her a significant nod and went out. But scarcely had the door closed behind her, when every trace of dignity and severity instantaneously vanished from Kapitolina Markovna’s face; she got up, ran on tiptoe up to Litvinov, and all hunched together and trying to look him in the face, she began in a quaking tearful whisper: