Markovna Shestov, an old unmarried lady of fifty-five, a
good-natured, honest, eccentric soul--a democrat, sworn opponent of
aristocracy and fashionable society--could not resist the temptation of
gazing for once on the aristocratic society which sunned itself in such
a fashionable place as Baden.

While he was expecting the arrival of his betrothed, Litvinov found
himself compelled to pass his time in the society of his
fellow-countrymen--ardent young Russian Liberals of both sexes, bubbling
over with new theories and enthusiasm, and ready to talk for hours
together on the political and social regeneration of their native
country. As far as possible, he avoided their society, and escaped into
the solitudes of the mountains. It was during one of these lonely
excursions that, feeling hungry, he made his way to the old castle, and,
seating himself at one of the little white-painted tables of the
restaurant, ordered a light breakfast. While he was seated there, there
was a loud tramping of horses, and a party of young Russian
generals--persons of the highest society, of weight and
importance--arrived, and with much noise and ostentation summoned the
obsequious waiters to attend to their wants. Litvinov made haste to
drink off his glass of milk, paid for it, and, putting his hat on, was
just making off past the party of generals...

"Grigory Mihalovitch," he heard a woman's voice, "don't you recognise
me?"

He stopped involuntarily. That voice... that voice had too often set his
heart beating in the past... He turned round and saw Irina.

Litvinov knew her at once, though she had changed since he saw her that
last time ten years ago, though she had been transformed from a girl
into a woman.

"Irina Pavlovna," he uttered, irresolutely.

"You know me? How glad I am! how glad--" She stopped, blushing. "Let me
introduce you to my husband."

One of the young generals, Ratmirov by name, almost the most elegant of
all, got up from his seat at the introduction, and bowed with a
dandified air. Litvinov would have escaped, but Irina insisted on his
sitting down. For a time he had to listen to the empty, meaningless talk
of the company, hardly able to say a word to Irina. At last his clean
plebeian pride revolted. He rose to his feet, somehow took leave of
Irina and her husband, and walked rapidly away, trying to brace and
soothe his nerves by violent exercise.

"Oh, Tatyana, Tatyana!" he cried passionately to himself. "You