Olya stumbled out and climbed up to the third Hoor, where, blinded by tears, she could scarcely find the door he had indicated. Before going in she took a quick look in her little pocket mirror, fanned her swollen eyes with her hand and knocked.

Behind the desk a handsome man in his forties was talking on the telephone. He looked up at her, greeted her with a nod, and, smiling, indicated the armchair. Olya sat down timidly on the edge of the seat. While continuing to give laconic replies, the man took out a bottle of water from under the desk and deftly opened it with one hand. He poured some into a glass and slid it gently across toward Olya, blinked, and smiled at her again. "He doesn't know why I'm here yet," she thought, swallowing a little sparkling mouthful. "When he discovers he'll yell at me and throw me out."

The man put down the receiver, extracted a sheet of paper from a drawer and scanned it quickly. He studied his visitor and said: "Good. Olya Ivanovna Demidova, if I'm not mistaken? Well, Olya, let's get to know one another." And he introduced himself: "Sergei Nikolaievich." Then he paused, sighed, rubbed his temples and went on, as if regretfully: "You see, Olya, what took place is without any doubt unfortunate and, I fear, heavy with consequences for you. As a man, I can understand you: youth's the season made for joy, of course. You yearn for new sensations… Essenin, you remember, calls it 'the flood tide of feelings' – that's his phrase, isn't it? But that's the poet speaking. And you and I are living in the world of political and ideological realities. Today your Frenchman is throwing the javelin or doing the high jump. Tomorrow he's being trained for some kind of intelligence work and comes back here as a spy. Well, I'm not going to make a speech. You've already had an earful.