Litvinov was silent, waiting for a response, some sound. . . . Nothing!
'There is one thing left for me,' he began again, 'to go away ; I have come to say good-bye to you.'
Irina slowly dropped her hands on to her knees.
'But I remember, Grigory Mihalitch,' she began; 'that . . . that person of whom you spoke to me, she was to have come here? You are expecting her?'
'Yes; but I shall write to her . . . she will stop somewhere on the way . . . at Heidelberg, for instance.'
'Ah! Heidelberg. . . . Yes. . . . It 's nice there. . . . But all this must upset your plans. Are you perfectly certain, Grigory Mihalitch, that you are not exaggerating, et que ce n'est pas une fausse alarme?'
Irina spoke softly, almost coldly, with short pauses, looking away towards the window. Litvinov made no answer to her last question.
'Only, why did you talk of offence?' she went on. 'I am not offended . . . oh, no! and if one or other of us is to blame, in any case it 's not you; not you alone. . . . Remember our last conversations, and you will be convinced that it 's not you who are to blame.'
'I have never doubted your magnanimity,'
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