In the room, in the same armchair, in the same dress, in precisely the same attitude as three hours before, was sitting Irina.... It was obvious that she had not moved from the place, had not stirred all that time. She slowly raised her head, and seeing Litvinov, she trembled all over and clutched the arm of the chair. ‘You frightened me,’ she whispered. Litvinov looked at her with speechless bewilderment. The expression of her face, her lustreless eyes, astounded him. Irina gave a forced smile and smoothed her ruffled hair. ‘Never mind.... I really don’t know.... I think I must have fallen asleep here.’ ‘I beg your pardon, Irina Pavlovna,’ began Litvinov. ‘I came in unannounced.... I wanted to do what you thought fit to require of me. So as I am going away to-day----’ ‘To-day? But I thought you told me that you meant first to write a letter----’ ‘I have sent a telegram.’ ‘Ah! you found it necessary to make haste. And when are you going? What time, I mean?’ ‘At seven o’clock this evening.’ ‘Ah! at seven o’clock! And you have come to say good-bye?’ ‘Yes, Irina Pavlovna, to say good-bye.’ Irina was silent for a little. ‘I ought to thank you, Grigory Mihalitch, it was probably not easy for you to come here.’ ‘No, Irina Pavlovna, it was anything but easy.’ ‘Life is not generally easy, Grigory Mihalitch; what do you think about it?’ ‘It depends, Irina Pavlovna.’ Irina was silent again for a little; she seemed sunk in thought. ‘You have proved your affection for me by coming,’ she said at last, ‘I thank you. And I fully approve of your decision to put an end to everything as soon as possible ... because any delay ... because ... because I, even I whom you have reproached as a flirt, called an actress ... that, I think, was what you called me?...’ Irina got up swiftly, and, sitting down in another chair, stooped down and pressed her face and arms on the edge of the table. ‘Because I love you ...’ she whispered between her clasped fingers. Litvinov staggered, as though some one had dealt him a blow in the chest. Irina turned her head dejectedly away from him, as though she in her turn wanted to hide her face from him, and laid it down on the table. ‘Yes, I love you ... I love you ... and you know it.’ ‘I? I know it?’ Litvinov said at last; ‘I?’ ‘Well, now you see,’ Irina went on, ‘that you certainly must go, that delay’s impossible ... both for you, and for me delay’s impossible. It’s dangerous, it’s terrible ... good-bye!’ she added, rising impulsively from her chair, ‘good-bye!’ She took a few steps in the direction of the door of her boudoir, and putting her hand behind her back, made a hurried movement in the air, as though she would find and press the hand of Litvinov; but he stood like a block of wood, at a distance.... Once more she said, ‘Good-bye, forget me,’ and without looking round she rushed away.