Towards morning a determination was at last fully formed in Litvinov’s mind. He decided to set off that day to meet Tatyana, and seeing Irina for the last time, to tell her, since there was nothing else for it, the whole truth, and to part from her for ever. He set in order and packed his things, waited till twelve o’clock, and started to go to her. But at the sight of her half-curtained windows Litvinov’s heart fairly failed him ... he could not summon up courage to enter the hotel. He walked once or twice up and down Lichtenthaler Allee. ‘A very good day to Mr. Litvinov!’ he suddenly heard an ironical voice call from the top of a swiftly-moving ‘dogcart.’ Litvinov raised his eyes and saw General Ratmirov sitting beside Prince M., a well-known sportsman and fancier of English carriages and horses. The prince was driving, the general was leaning over on one side, grinning, while he lifted his hat high above his head. Litvinov bowed to him, and at the same instant, as though he were obeying a secret command, he set off at a run towards Irina’s. She was at home. He sent up his name; he was at once received. When he went in, she was standing in the middle of the room. She was wearing a morning blouse with wide open sleeves; her face, pale as the day before, but not fresh as it had been then, expressed weariness; the languid smile with which she welcomed her visitor emphasised that expression even more clearly. She held out her hand to him in a friendly way, but absent-mindedly. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she began in a plaintive voice, and she sank into a low chair. ‘I am not very well this morning; I spent a bad night. Well, what have you to say about last night? Wasn’t I right?’ Litvinov sat down. ‘I have come to you, Irina Pavlovna,’ he began. She instantly sat up and turned round; her eyes simply fastened upon Litvinov. ‘What is it,’ she cried. ‘You’re pale as death, you’re ill. What’s the matter with you?’ Litvinov was confused. ‘With me, Irina Pavlovna?’ ‘Have you had bad news? Some misfortune has happened, tell me, tell me----’ Litvinov in his turn looked at Irina. ‘I have had no bad news,’ he brought out not without effort, ‘but a misfortune has certainly happened, a great misfortune ... and it has brought me to you.’ ‘A misfortune? What is it?’ ‘Why ... that----’ Litvinov tried to go on ... and could not. He only pinched his hands together so that his fingers cracked. Irina was bending forward and seemed turned to stone. ‘Oh! I love you!’ broke at last with a low groan from Litvinov’s breast, and he turned away, as though he would hide his face. ‘What, Grigory Mihalitch, you’ ... Irina too could not finish her sentence, and leaning back in her chair, she put both her hands to her eyes. ‘You ... love me.’ ‘Yes ... yes ... yes,’ he repeated with bitterness, turning his head further and further away.