‘For what? ... you know for what,’ she said, and she turned slightly away. ‘I wronged you, Grigory Mihalitch ... though, of course, it was my fate’ (Litvinov was reminded of her letter) ‘and I do not regret it ... it would be in any case too late; but, meeting you so unexpectedly, I said to myself that we absolutely must become friends, absolutely ... and I should feel it deeply, if it did not come about ... and it seems to me for that we must have an explanation, without putting it off, and once for all, so that afterwards there should be no ... _gêne_, no awkwardness, once for all, Grigory Mihalitch; and that you must tell me you forgive me, or else I shall imagine you feel ... _de la rancune_. _Voilà!_ It is perhaps a great piece of fatuity on my part, for you have probably forgotten everything long, long ago, but no matter, tell me, you have forgiven me.’ Irina uttered this whole speech without taking breath, and Litvinov could see that there were tears shining in her eyes ... yes, actually tears. ‘Really, Irina Pavlovna,’ he began hurriedly, ‘how can you beg my pardon, ask forgiveness?... That is all past and buried, and I can only feel astounded that, in the midst of all the splendour which surrounds you, you have still preserved a recollection of the obscure companions of your youth....’ ‘Does it astound you?’ said Irina softly. ‘It touches me,’ Litvinov went on, ‘because I could never have imagined----’ ‘You have not told me you have forgiven me, though,’ interposed Irina. ‘I sincerely rejoice at your happiness, Irina Pavlovna. With my whole heart I wish you all that is best on earth....’ ‘And you will not remember evil against me?’ ‘I will remember nothing but the happy moments for which I was once indebted to you.’ Irina held out both hands to him; Litvinov clasped them warmly, and did not at once let them go.... Something that long had not been, secretly stirred in his heart at that soft contact. Irina was again looking straight into his face; but this time she was smiling.... And he for the first time gazed directly and intently at her.... Again he recognised the features once so precious, and those deep eyes, with their marvellous lashes, and the little mole on her cheek, and the peculiar growth of her hair on her forehead, and her habit of somehow sweetly and humorously curving her lips and faintly twitching her eyebrows, all, all he recognised.... But how beautiful she had grown! What fascination, what power in her fresh, woman’s body! And no rouge, no touching up, no powder, nothing false on that fresh pure face.... Yes, this was a beautiful woman. A mood of musing came upon Litvinov.... He was still looking at her, but his thoughts were far away.... Irina perceived it. ‘Well, that is excellent,’ she said aloud; ‘now my conscience is at rest then, and I can satisfy my curiosity.’ ‘Curiosity,’ repeated Litvinov, as though puzzled.