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.
Litvinov remained alone, and yet still could not come to himself. He recovered himself at last, went quickly to the boudoir door, uttered Irina's name once, twice, three times . . . He had already his hand on the lock . . . From the hotel stairs rose the sound of Ratmirov's sonorous voice.
Litvinov pulled down his hat over his eyes, and went out on to the staircase. The elegant general was standing before the Swiss porter's