known
depth and distance. Litvinov fell in love with Irina from the moment he
saw her (he was only three years older than she was), but for a long
while he failed to obtain not only a response, but even a hearing. She
treated him with hostility, and the more he showed his love, the greater
was her coldness, the more malignant her indifference. She tortured him
in this way for two months. Then everything was transformed in one day.

Worn out by this cold torture, Litvinov was one night about to depart in
despair. Without saying good-bye, he began to look for his hat. "Stay,"
sounded suddenly in a soft whisper. With throbbing heart he looked
round, hardly believing his ears. Before him he saw Irina, transformed.
"Stay," she repeated; "don't go. I want to be with you."

From that moment of the discovery of her love, Irina was changed. She,
who before had been proud and cruel, became at once as docile as a lamb,
as soft as silk, and boundlessly kind.

"Ah, love me, love me, my sweet, my saviour," she would whisper to him,
with her arms about his neck.

In this new dream of happiness the days flew, the weeks passed; the
future came ever nearer with the glorious hope of their happiness, and
then, suddenly, an event occurred which scattered all their dreams and
plans like light roadside dust. The Court came to Moscow, and the
Osinins, despite their poverty, determined to attend the customary great
ball in the Hall of Nobility. At first Irina resolutely refused to go,
and Litvinov was called in by the prince to use his persuasion.

"Very well, then, I will go," she said, when she had listened to his
arguments; "only remember, it is you yourself who desired it."

She spoke so strangely that he feared he had offended her.

"Irina, darling, you seem to be angry."

Irina laughed.

"Oh, no! I am not angry. Only, Grisha..." (She fastened her eyes on him,
and he thought he had never before seen such an expression in them.)
"Perhaps it must be," she added, in an undertone.

"But, Irina, you love me, dear?"

"I love you," she answered, with almost solemn gravity, and she clasped
his hand firmly like a man.

She went to the ball in a simple white dress, wearing a bunch of
heliotrope, the gift of her lover. When he called the following day,
Litvinov heard from the prince of the impression Irina had created; how
all the great noblemen from St. Petersburg, and even the Czar himself,
had commented upon her beauty. But Irina her