‘Ah! Heidelberg.... Yes.... It’s nice there.... But all this must upset your plans. Are you perfectly certain, Grigory Mihalitch, that you are not exaggerating, _et que ce n’est pas une fausse alarme_?’ Irina spoke softly, almost coldly, with short pauses, looking away towards the window. Litvinov made no answer to her last question. ‘Only, why did you talk of offence?’ she went on. ‘I am not offended ... oh, no! and if one or other of us is to blame, in any case it’s not you; not you alone.... Remember our last conversations, and you will be convinced that it’s not you who are to blame.’ ‘I have never doubted your magnanimity,’ Litvinov muttered between his teeth, ‘but I should like to know, do you approve of my intention?’ ‘To go away?’ ‘Yes.’ Irina continued to look away. ‘At the first moment, your intention struck me as premature ... but now I have thought over what you have said ... and if you are really not mistaken, then I suppose that you ought to go away. It will be better so ... better for us both.’ Irina’s voice had grown lower and lower, and her words too came more and more slowly. ‘General Ratmirov, certainly, might notice,’ Litvinov was beginning.... Irina’s eyes dropped again, and something strange quivered about her lips, quivered and died away. ‘No; you did not understand me,’ she interrupted him. ‘I was not thinking of my husband. Why should I? And there is nothing to notice. But I repeat, separation is necessary for us both.’ Litvinov picked up his hat, which had fallen on the ground. ‘Everything is over,’ he thought, ‘I must go. And so it only remains for me to say good-bye to you, Irina Pavlovna,’ he said aloud, and suddenly felt a pang, as though he were preparing to pronounce his own sentence on himself. ‘It only remains for me to hope that you will not remember evil against me, and ... and that if we ever----’ Irina again cut him short. ‘Wait a little, Grigory Mihalitch, don’t say good-bye to me yet. That would be too hurried.’ Something wavered in Litvinov, but the burning pain broke out again and with redoubled violence in his heart. ‘But I can’t stay,’ he cried. ‘What for? Why prolong this torture?’ ‘Don’t say good-bye to me yet,’ repeated Irina. ‘I must see you once more.... Another such dumb parting as in Moscow again--no, I don’t want that. You can go now, but you must promise me, give me your word of honour that you won’t go away without seeing me once more.’ ‘You wish that?’ ‘I insist on it. If you go away without saying good-bye to me, I shall never forgive it, do you hear, never! Strange!’ she added as though to herself, ‘I cannot persuade myself that I am in Baden.... I keep feeling that I am in Moscow.... Go now.’ Litvinov got up. ‘Irina Pavlovna,’ he said, ‘give me your hand.’ Irina shook her head. ‘I told you that I don’t want to say good-bye to you....’ ‘I don’t ask it for that.’