SMOKE
had been when he had told Irina that his honour even left no other course open. . . . And again at the mere name something of flame turned with sweet ache about his heart and died away again.
The tramp of horses' hoofs sounded behind him. . . . He moved aside, . . . Irina overtook him on horseback; beside her rode the stout general. She recognised Litvinov, nodded to him, and lashing her horse with a sidestroke of her whip, she put him into a gallop, and suddenly dashed away at headlong speed. Her dark veil fluttered in the wind. ...
'Pas si vite! Nom de Dieu! pas si vite!' cried the general, and he too galloped after her.
