after the housekeeping; everything was amusing and interesting to her; she would sometimes chatter incessantly, and sometimes sink into speechless tenderness; she made all sorts of plans, and was lost in endless anticipations of what she would do when she was married to Litvinov (they never doubted that their marriage would come to pass), and how together they would ... ‘Work?’ prompted Litvinov.... ‘Yes; work,’ repeated Irina, ‘and read ... but travel before all things.’ She particularly wanted to leave Moscow as soon as possible, and when Litvinov reminded her that he had not yet finished his course of study at the university, she always replied, after a moment’s thought, that it was quite possible to finish his studies at Berlin or ... somewhere or other. Irina was very little reserved in the expression of her feelings, and so her relations with Litvinov did not long remain a secret from the prince and princess. Rejoice they could not; but, taking all circumstances into consideration, they saw no necessity for putting a veto on it at once. Litvinov’s fortune was considerable.... ‘But his family, his family!’ ... protested the princess. ‘Yes, his family, of course,’ replied the prince; but at least he’s not quite a plebeian; and, what’s the principal point, Irina, you know, will not listen to us. Has there ever been a time when she did not do what she chose? _Vous connaissez sa violence!_ Besides, there is nothing fixed definitely yet.’ So reasoned the prince, but mentally he added, however: ‘Madame Litvinov--is that all? I had expected something else.’ Irina took complete possession of her future _fiancé_, and indeed he himself eagerly surrendered himself into her hands. It was as if he had fallen into a rapid river, and had lost himself.... And bitter and sweet it was to him, and he regretted nothing and heeded nothing. To reflect on the significance and the duties of marriage, or whether he, so hopelessly enslaved, could be a good husband, and what sort of wife Irina would make, and whether their relations to one another were what they should be--was more than he could bring himself to. His blood was on fire, he could think of nothing, only--to follow her, be with her, for the future without end, and then--let come what may! But in spite of the complete absence of opposition on Litvinov’s side, and the wealth of impulsive tenderness on Irina’s, they did not get on quite without any misunderstandings and quarrels. One day he ran to her straight from the university in an old coat and ink-stained hands. She rushed to meet him with her accustomed fond welcome; suddenly she stopped short. ‘You have no gloves,’ she said abruptly, and added directly after: ‘Fie! what a student you are!’ ‘You are too particular, Irina,’ remarked Litvinov.