Christian happened to observe Letitia, who stood in the centre of a circle of men. Upon her forehead was forgetfulness; she knew nothing of yesterday and nothing of to-morrow. There was no one else so absorbed by the passing hour as she. A footman approached Christian and gave him a card. The footman frowned doubtfully, for the card was not quite clean. On it Christian read these pencilled words: “I. M. Becker must speak with you at once.” Hurriedly he excused himself and went out. Ivan Michailovitch stood perfectly still in the outer hall. Newly arrived guests, who gave the footmen their hats and coats, passed by without noticing him. The men took mincing steps, the ladies sought the mirror for a final look with their excited eyes. Ivan Michailovitch wore a long grey coat, shabby and wet. The black-bearded face was pale as wax. Christian drew him into an empty corner of the hall, where they were undisturbed. “I beg you to forgive me for throwing a shadow on all this festivity,” Ivan Michailovitch began, “but I had no choice. I received a notification of expulsion from the police this afternoon. I must leave the city and the country within twelve hours. The simple favour I ask of you is to take this notebook into your keeping, until I myself or some properly identified friend asks it back.” He glanced swiftly about him, took a thin, blue notebook out of his pocket, and gave it to Christian, who slid it swiftly and unobtrusively into a pocket of his evening coat. “It contains memoranda in Russian,” Ivan continued, “which have no value to any one but myself, but which must not be found on me. Since I am being expelled there is little doubt but that my person and effects will be searched.” “Won’t you come and rest in my room?” Christian asked, timidly. “Won’t you eat or drink something?” Ivan Michailovitch shook his head. From the hall floated the sound of the violins, playing an ingratiating air by Puccini. “Won’t you at least dry your coat?” Christian asked again. The strains of the music, the splendour there within, the merriment and laughter, the fullness of beauty and happiness, all this presented so sharp a contrast to the appearance of this man in a wet coat, with wax-like face and morbidly flaming eyes, that Christian could no longer endure his apparently unfeeling position between these two worlds, of whose utter and terrible alienation from each other he was acutely aware. Ivan Michailovitch smiled. “It is kind of you to think of my coat. But you can’t do any good. It will only get wet again.” “I’d like to take you, just as you are,” said Christian, and he smiled too, “and go in there with you.” Ivan Michailovitch shrugged his shoulders, and his face grew dark.