XXII
'Better not think now, really,' Litvinov repeated, as he strode along the street, feeling that the inward riot was rising up again in him. 'The thing 's decided. She will keep her promise, and it only remains for me to take all necessary steps. . . . Yet she hesitates, it seems.' . . . He shook his head. His own designs struck even his own imagination in a strange light; there was a smack of artificiality, of unreality about them. One cannot dwell long upon the same thoughts; they gradually shift like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope . . . one peeps in, and already the shapes before one's eyes are utterly different. A sensation of intense weariness overcame Litvinov. . . . If he could for one short hour but rest! . . . But Tanya? He started, and, without reflecting even, turned submissively homewards, merely struck by the idea, that this day was tossing him like a ball from one to the other. . . . No matter; he must make an end. He went
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