‘No,’ she answered drily. Litvinov was silent for a little. ‘And did you go on living at that, what was his name, Count Reisenbach’s, till your marriage?’ Irina looked steadily at him, as though she were trying to make up her mind why he asked that question. ‘No,’ ... was her answer at last. ‘I suppose, your parents.... By the way, I haven’t asked after them. Are they----’ ‘They are both well.’ ‘And living at Moscow as before?’ ‘At Moscow as before.’ ‘And your brothers and sisters?’ ‘They are all right; I have provided for all of them.’ ‘Ah!’ Litvinov glanced up from under his brows at Irina. ‘In reality, Irina Pavlovna, it’s not I who ought to tell my story, but you, if only----’ He suddenly felt embarrassed and stopped. Irina raised her hands to her face and turned her wedding-ring round upon her finger. ‘Well? I will not refuse,’ she assented at last. ‘Some day ... perhaps.... But first you ... because, do you see, though I tried to follow you up, I know scarcely anything of you; while of me ... well, of me you have heard enough certainly. Haven’t you? I suppose you have heard of me, tell me?’ ‘You, Irina Pavlovna, occupied too conspicuous a place in the world, not to be the subject of talk ... especially in the provinces, where I have been and where every rumour is believed.’ ‘And do you believe the rumours? And of what kind were the rumours?’ ‘To tell the truth, Irina Pavlovna, such rumours very seldom reached me. I have led a very solitary life.’ ‘How so? why, you were in the Crimea, in the militia?’ ‘You know that too?’ ‘As you see. I tell you, you have been watched.’ Again Litvinov felt puzzled. ‘Why am I to tell you what you know without me?’ said Litvinov in an undertone. ‘Why ... to do what I ask you. You see I ask you, Grigory Mihalitch.’ Litvinov bowed his head and began ... began in rather a confused fashion to recount in rough outline to Irina his uninteresting adventures. He often stopped and looked inquiringly at Irina, as though to ask whether he had told enough. But she insistently demanded the continuation of his narrative and pushing her hair back behind her ears, her elbows on the arm of her chair, she seemed to be catching every word with strained attention. Looking at her from one side and following the expression on her face, any one might perhaps have imagined she did not hear what Litvinov was saying at all, but was only deep in meditation.... But it was not of Litvinov she was meditating, though he grew confused and red under her persistent gaze. A whole life was rising up before her, a very different one, not his life, but her own.