‘Her hair’s not red,’ remarked Litvinov; ‘she dyes it red—that’s the fashion now.’
Again Kapitolina Markovna could only lift her hands; she was positively dumbfounded.
‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘where we were, in Dresden, things had not got to such a scandalous pitch yet. It’s a little further from Paris, anyway, that’s why. Don’t you think that’s it, Grigory Mihalitch, eh?’
‘Don’t I think so?’ answered Litvinov. While he thought to himself, ‘What on earth is she talking of?’ ‘I? Of course ... of course....’
But at this point the sound of slow footsteps was heard, and Potugin approached the seat.
‘Good-morning, Grigory Mihalitch,’ he began, smiling and nodding.
Litvinov grasped him by the hand at once.
‘Good-morning, good-morning, Sozont Ivanitch. I fancy I passed you just now with ... just now in the avenue?’
‘Yes, it was me.’