seemed to have happened . . . unconsciously and gradually.
'Ah, she's a wretch, a perfect wretch!' Kapitolina Markovna declared, shaking her head commiseratingly; 'why, with the price of her get-up, you could keep not ten, but a hundred families. Did you see under her hat, on her red hair, there were diamonds? Upon my word, diamonds in the day-time!'
'Her hair's not red,' remarked Litvinov; 'she dyes it red—that 's the fashion now.'
Again Kapitolina Markovna could only lift her hands; she was positively dumbfounded.
'Well,' she said at last, 'where we were, in Dresden, things had not got to such a scandalous pitch yet. It 's a little further from Paris, anyway, that's why. Don't you think that's it, Grigory Mihalitch, eh?'
'Don't I think so?' answered Litvinov. While he thought to himself, 'What on earth is she talking of?' 'I? Of course . . . of course. . . .'
But at this point the sound of slow footsteps was heard, and Fotugin approached the seat.
'Good-morning, Grigory Mihalitch,' he began, smiling and nodding.
Litvinov grasped him by the hand at once.
'Good - morning, good - morning, Sozont Ivanitch. I fancy I passed you just now with . . . just now in the avenue?'