While he was expecting the arrival of his betrothed, Litvinov found himself compelled to pass his time in the society of his fellow-countrymen—­ardent young Russian Liberals of both sexes, bubbling over with new theories and enthusiasm, and ready to talk for hours together on the political and social regeneration of their native country.  As far as possible, he avoided their society, and escaped into the solitudes of the mountains.  It was during one of these lonely excursions that, feeling hungry, he made his way to the old castle, and, seating himself at one of the little white-painted tables of the restaurant, ordered a light breakfast.  While he was seated there, there was a loud tramping of horses, and a party of young Russian generals—­persons of the highest society, of weight and importance—­arrived, and with much noise and ostentation summoned the obsequious waiters to attend to their wants.  Litvinov made haste to drink off his glass of milk, paid for it, and, putting his hat on, was just making off past the party of generals...

“Grigory Mihalovitch,” he heard a woman’s voice, “don’t you recognise me?”

He stopped involuntarily.  That voice... that voice had too often set his heart beating in the past...  He turned round and saw Irina.

Litvinov knew her at once, though she had changed since he saw her that last time ten years ago, though she had been transformed from a girl into a woman.

“Irina Pavlovna,” he uttered, irresolutely.

“You know me?  How glad I am! how glad—­” She stopped, blushing.  “Let me introduce you to my husband.”

One of the young generals, Ratmirov by name, almost the most elegant of all, got up from his seat at the introduction, and bowed with a dandified air.  Litvinov would have escaped, but Irina insisted on his sitting down.  For a time he had to listen to the empty, meaningless talk of the company, hardly able to say a word to Irina.  At last his clean plebeian pride revolted.  He rose to his feet, somehow took leave of Irina and her husband, and walked rapidly away, trying to brace and soothe his nerves by violent exercise.

“Oh, Tatyana, Tatyana!” he cried passionately to himself.  “You are my guardian angel! you only my good genius!  I love you only, and will love you for ever, and I will not go to see her.  Forget her altogether!  Let her amuse herself with her generals.”

That very evening Irina sent him a message, asking him to come and see her, and, in spite of all his determinations, he went.  She saw him alone in a room in one of the best hotels in Baden.  “Grigory Mihalovitch,” she cried, as soon as he had closed the door behind him, “here we are alone at last, and I can tell you how glad I am at our meeting, because it... gives me a chance... of asking your forgiveness.”

Litvinov started involuntarily at this unexpected reference to old times.

“Forgiveness... for what?” he muttered.