‘It’s impossible not to understand her at once,’ Potugin replied quickly, as though evading the last question. ‘One need only take one look into her eyes. She deserves every possible happiness on earth, and enviable is the fate of the man whose lot it is to give her that happiness! One must hope he may prove worthy of such a fate.’
Litvinov frowned slightly.
‘Excuse me, Sozont Ivanitch,’ he said, ‘I must confess our conversation strikes me as altogether rather original.... I should like to know, does the hint contained in your words refer to me?’
Potugin did not at once answer Litvinov; he was visibly struggling with himself.
‘Grigory Mihalitch,’ he began at last, ‘either I am completely mistaken in you, or you are capable of hearing the truth, from whomsoever it may come, and in however unattractive a form it may present itself. I told you just now, that I saw where you came from.’
‘Why, from the Hôtel de l’Europe. What of that?’
‘I know, of course, whom you have been to see there.’
‘What?’
‘You have been to see Madame Ratmirov.’
‘Well, I have been to see her. What next?’