'Irina, Irina,' he repeated,—'my angel. . . .'
She suddenly raised her head, listened. . . .
'It's my husband's step, . . . he has gone into his room,' she whispered, and, moving hurriedly away, she crossed over to another armchair. Litvinov was getting up. ... 'What are you doing?' she went on in the same whisper; 'you must stay, he suspects you as it is. Or are you afraid of him?' She did not take her eyes off the door. 'Yes, it 's he; he will come in here directly. Tell me something, talk to me.'
Litvinov could not at once recover himself and was silent. 'Aren't you going to the theatre tomorrow?' she uttered aloud. 'They 're giving Le Verre d'Eau, an old-fashioned piece, and Plessy is awfully affected. . . . We're as though we were in a perfect fever,' she added, dropping her voice. 'We can't do anything like this; we must think things over well. I ought to warn you that all my money is in his hands; mais j'ai mes bijoux. We '11 go to Spain, would you like that?' She raised her voice again. 'Why is it all actresses get so fat? Madeleine Brohan for instance. . . . Do talk, don't sit so silent. My head is going round. But you, you must not doubt me. . . . I will let you know where to come to-morrow. Only it was a mistake to have told that young lady. .. . Ah, mais c'est charmant!' she cried suddenly and with a nervous