Certainly he was not. There sat before him, drumming with delicate fingers on the edge of the table, a broad-shouldered man, with an ample frame on short legs, a downcast head of curly hair, with very intelligent and very mournful eyes under bushy brows, a thick well-cut mouth, bad teeth, and that purely Russian nose to which is assigned the epithet ‘potato’; a man of awkward, even odd exterior; at least, he was certainly not of a common type. He was carelessly dressed; his old-fashioned coat hung on him like a sack, and his cravat was twisted awry. His sudden friendliness, far from striking Litvinov as intrusive, secretly flattered him; it was impossible not to see that it was not a common practice with this man to attach himself to strangers. He made a curious impression on Litvinov; he awakened in him respect and liking, and a kind of involuntary compassion. ‘I am not in your way then?’ he repeated in a soft, rather languid and faint voice, which was marvellously in keeping with his whole personality. ‘No, indeed,’ replied Litvinov; ‘quite the contrary, I am very glad.’ ‘Really? Well, then, I am glad too. I have heard a great deal about you; I know what you are engaged in, and what your plans are. It’s a good work. That’s why you were silent this evening.’ ‘Yes; you too said very little, I fancy,’ observed Litvinov. Potugin sighed. ‘The others said enough and to spare. I listened. Well,’ he added, after a moment’s pause, raising his eyebrows with a rather humorous expression, ‘did you like our building of the Tower of Babel?’ ‘That’s just what it was. You have expressed it capitally. I kept wanting to ask those gentlemen what they were in such a fuss about.’ Potugin sighed again.