In a few minutes he was with Irina, holding her in his arms.

“I can’t live without you, Irina,” he whispered; “I am yours for ever and always.  I can only breathe at your feet.”

He stooped down, all in a tremble, to kiss her hand.  Irina gazed at his bent head.

“Then let me say that I, too, am ready for anything; that I, too, will consider no one and nothing.  As you decide, so it shall be.  I, too, am for ever yours... yours.”

He tore himself away with difficulty.  He had turned his back on his upright, well-organised, orderly future.  The thing was done, but how was he to face his judge?  And if only his judge would come to meet him—­an angel with a flaming sword; that would be easier for a sinning heart... instead of which, he had himself to plunge the knife in... infamous! but to turn back, to abandon that other, to take advantage of the freedom offered him, recognised as his...  No, no! better to die!  No, he would have none of such loathsome freedom... but would humble himself in the dust, and might those eyes look down on him with love.

Two hours later he was back again, trying to talk to the girl he determined to deceive.  He felt a continual gnawing of conscience; whatever he said, it always seemed to him that he was telling lies, and Tatyana was seeing through it.  The girl was paler than usual, and, replying to her aunt, she said she had a little headache.

“It’s the journey,” suggested Litvinov, and he positively blushed with shame.

“Yes, the journey,” repeated Tatyana, letting her eyes dwell for a moment on his face.

In the night, at two o’clock, Kapitolina Markovna, who was sleeping in the same room with her niece, suddenly lifted up her head and listened.

“Tatyana,” she said, “you are crying?”

Tatyana did not at once answer.

“No, aunt,” sounded her gentle voice; “I have caught cold.”

In the course of that dreadful night Litvinov had arrived at a resolution.  He determined to tell Tatyana the truth, and in the morning he steeled himself for the interview.  He found her alone, and with an effort stumbled out the introductory words of his confession.  Tatyana stopped him abruptly in the middle.

“Grigory Mihalovitch,” she said in a measured voice, while a deathly pallor overspread her whole face, “I will come to your assistance.  You no longer love me, and you don’t know how to tell me so.”

He flung himself on his knees before her.

“Tatyana,” he cried, “could I dream that I should bring such a blow upon you, my best friend, my guardian angel!  I have come to tell you that your friend is ruined, that he is falling into the pit, and would not drag you down with him, but save me... no! even you cannot save me.  I should push you away; I am ruined, Tatyana, I am ruined past all help.”

Tatyana’s brow twitched.  Her pale face darkened.

“Since you say yourself this passion is unalterable, it only remains for me to give you back your word.  I will ask you to leave me.  I want to collect myself a little....  Leave me alone... spare my pride.”