‘I know it’s not easy, Irina, I tell you so indeed in my letter ... I understand your position. But if you believe in the value of your love for me, if my words have convinced you, you ought, too, to understand what I feel now at the sight of your tears. I have come here, like a man on his trial, and I await what is to be my sentence? Death or life? Your answer decides everything. Only don’t look at me with those eyes.... They remind me of the eyes I saw in old days in Moscow.’ Irina flushed at once, and turned away, as though herself conscious of something evil in her gaze. ‘Why do you say that, Grigory? For shame! You want to know my answer ... do you mean to say you can doubt it? You are troubled by my tears ... but you don’t understand them. Your letter, dearest, has set me thinking. Here you write that my love has replaced everything for you, that even your former studies can never now be put into practice; but I ask myself, can a man live for love alone? Won’t it weary him at last, won’t he want an active career, and won’t he cast the blame on what drew him away from active life? That’s the thought that dismays me, that’s what I am afraid of, and not what you imagine.’ Litvinov looked intently at Irina, and Irina intently looked at him, as though each would penetrate deeper and further into the soul of the other, deeper and further than word can reach, or word betray. ‘You are wrong in being afraid of that,’ began Litvinov. ‘I must have expressed myself badly. Weariness? Inactivity? With the new impetus your love will give me? O Irina, in your love there’s a whole world for me, and I can’t yet foresee myself what may develop from it.’ Irina grew thoughtful. ‘Where are we going?’ she whispered. ‘Where? We will talk of that later. But, of course, then ... then you agree? you agree, Irina?’ She looked at him. ‘And you will be happy?’ ‘O Irina!’ ‘You will regret nothing? Never?’ She bent over the cardboard box, and again began looking over the lace in it. ‘Don’t be angry with me, dear one, for attending to this trash at such a moment.... I am obliged to go to a ball at a certain lady’s, these bits of finery have been sent me, and I must choose to-day. Ah! I am awfully wretched!’ she cried suddenly, and she laid her face down on the edge of the box. Tears began falling again from her eyes.... She turned away; the tears might spoil the lace. ‘Irina, you are crying again,’ Litvinov began uneasily.