‘You are a regular student,’ she repeated. ‘_Vous n’êtes pas distingué_’; and turning her back on him she went out of the room. It is true that an hour later she begged him to forgive her.... As a rule she readily censured herself and accused herself to him; but, strange to say, she often almost with tears blamed herself for evil propensities which she had not, and obstinately denied her real defects. Another time he found her in tears, her head in her hands, and her hair in disorder; and when, all in agitation, he asked her the cause of her grief, she pointed with her finger at her own bosom without speaking. Litvinov gave an involuntary shiver. ‘Consumption!’ flashed through his brain, and he seized her hand. ‘Are you ill, Irina?’ he articulated in a shaking voice. (They had already begun on great occasions to call each other by their first names.) ‘Let me go at once for a doctor.’ But Irina did not let him finish; she stamped with her foot in vexation. ‘I am perfectly well ... but this dress ... don’t you understand?’ ‘What is it? ... this dress,’ he repeated in bewilderment. ‘What is it? Why, that I have no other, and that it is old and disgusting, and I am obliged to put on this dress every day ... even when you--Grisha--Grigory, come here.... You will leave off loving me, at last, seeing me so slovenly!’ ‘For goodness sake, Irina, what are you saying? That dress is very nice.... It is dear to me too because I saw you for the first time in it, darling.’ Irina blushed. ‘Do not remind me, if you please, Grigory Mihalovitch, that I had no other dress even then.’ ‘But I assure you, Irina Pavlovna, it suits you so exquisitely.’ ‘No, it is horrid, horrid,’ she persisted, nervously pulling at her long, soft curls. ‘Ugh, this poverty, poverty and squalor! How is one to escape from this sordidness! How get out of this squalor!’ Litvinov did not know what to say, and slightly turned away from her. All at once Irina jumped up from her chair, and laid both her hands on his shoulders. ‘But you love me, Grisha? You love me?’ she murmured, putting her face close to him, and her eyes, still filled with tears, sparkled with the light of happiness, ‘You love me, dear, even in this horrid dress?’ Litvinov flung himself on his knees before her. ‘Ah, love me, love me, my sweet, my saviour,’ she whispered, bending over him. So the days flew, the weeks passed, and though as yet there had been no formal declaration, though Litvinov still deferred his demand for her hand, not, certainly, at his own desire, but awaiting directions from Irina (she remarked sometimes that they were both ridiculously young, and they must add at least a few weeks more to their years), still everything was moving to a conclusion, and the future as it came nearer grew more and more clearly defined, when suddenly an event occurred, which scattered all their dreams and plans like light roadside dust. VIII