‘O good Lord!’ cried Potugin with a comic face, ‘what are young men coming to nowadays! A most charming lady invites them to see her, sends messengers after them on purpose, and they raise difficulties. You ought to be ashamed, my dear sir, you ought to be ashamed. Here’s your hat. Take it and “Vorwärts,” as our ardent friends the Germans say.’ Litvinov still stood irresolute for a moment, but he ended by taking his hat and going out of the room with Potugin. XII They went to one of the best hotels in Baden and asked for Madame Ratmirov. The porter first inquired their names, and then answered at once that ‘_die Frau Fürstin ist zu Hause_,’ and went himself to conduct them up the staircase and knock at the door of the apartment and announce them. ‘_Die Frau Fürstin_’ received them promptly: she was alone, her husband had gone off to Carlsruhe for an interview with a great official, an influential personage who was passing through that town. Irina was sitting at a small table, embroidering on canvas when Potugin and Litvinov crossed the threshold. She quickly flung her embroidery aside, pushed away the little table and got up; an expression of genuine pleasure overspread her face. She wore a morning dress, high at the neck; the superb lines of her shoulders and arms could be seen through the thin stuff; her carelessly-coiled hair had come loose and fell low on her slender neck. Irina flung a swift glance at Potugin, murmured ‘_merci_,’ and holding out her hand to Litvinov reproached him amicably for forgetfulness. ‘And you such an old friend!’ she added. Litvinov was beginning to apologise. ‘_C’est bien, c’est bien_,’ she assented hurriedly and, taking his hat from him, with friendly insistence made him sit down. Potugin, too, was sitting down, but got up again directly, and saying that he had an engagement he could not put off, and that he would come in again after dinner, he proceeded to take leave. Irina again flung him a rapid glance, and gave him a friendly nod, but she did not try to keep him, and directly he had vanished behind the portière, she turned with eager impatience to Litvinov. ‘Grigory Mihalitch,’ she began, speaking Russian in her soft musical voice, ‘here we are alone at last, and I can tell you how glad I am at our meeting, because it ... it gives me a chance...’ (Irina looked him straight in the face) ‘of asking your forgiveness.’ Litvinov gave an involuntary start. He had not expected so swift an attack. He had not expected she would herself turn the conversation upon old times. ‘Forgiveness ... for what?’ ... he muttered. Irina flushed.