‘But why don’t you sit down, Grigory Mihalitch,’ observed Irina at last.
Litvinov obeyed and sat down.
‘I say, Valérien, give me some fire,’ remarked in English another general, also young, but already stout, with fixed eyes which seemed staring into the air, and thick silky whiskers, into which he slowly plunged his snow-white fingers. Ratmirov gave him a silver matchbox.
‘Avez vous des papiros?’ asked one of the ladies, with a lisp.
‘De vrais papelitos, comtesse.’
‘Deux gendarmes un beau dimanche,’ the dull-eyed general hummed again, with intense exasperation.
‘You must be sure to come and see us,’ Irina was saying to Litvinov meantime; ‘we are staying at the Hôtel de l’Europe. From four to six I am always at home. We have not seen each other for such a long time.’
Litvinov looked at Irina; she did not drop her eyes.
‘Yes, Irina Pavlovna, it is a long time—ever since we were at Moscow.’