Lavretsky came into the room and dropped on a chair.  The old man remained standing before him, wrapping the skirts of his motley old dressing-gown around him, stooping very much, and biting his lips.

“My wife has come,” said Lavretsky, with drooping head, and then he suddenly burst into a fit of involuntary laughter.

Lemm’s face expressed astonishment, but he preserved a grave silence, only wrapping his dressing-gown tighter around him.

“I suppose you don’t know,” continued Lavretsky.  “I supposed—­I saw in a newspaper that she was dead.”

“O—­h!  Was it lately you saw that?” asked Lemm.

“Yes.”

“O—­h!” repeated the old man, raising his eyebrows, “and she has come here?”

“Yes.  She is now in my house, and I—­I am a most unfortunate man.”

And he laughed again.

“You are a most unfortunate man,” slowly repeated Lemm.

“Christopher Fedorovich,” presently said Lavretsky, “will you undertake to deliver a note?”

“Hm!  To whom, may I ask?”

“To Lizav—­”

“Ah! yes, yes, I understand.  Very well.  But when must the note be delivered?”

“To-morrow, as early as possible.”

“Hm!  I might send my cook, Katrin.  No, I will go myself.”

“And will you bring me back the answer?”

“I will.”

Lemm sighed.

“Yes, my poor young friend,” he said, “you certainly are—­a most unfortunate young man.”

Lavretsky wrote a few words to Liza, telling her of his wife’s arrival, and begging her to make an appointment for an interview.  Then he flung himself on the narrow sofa, with his face to the wall.  The old man also lay down on his bed, and there long tossed about, coughing and swallowing mouthfuls of his tisane.

The morning came; they both arose—­strange were the looks they exchanged.  Lavretsky would have liked to kill himself just then.  Katrin the cook brought them some bad coffee, and then, when eight o’clock struck, Lemm put on his hat and went out saying that he was to have given a lesson at the Kalitines’ at ten o’clock, but that he would find a fitting excuse for going there sooner.

Lavretsky again threw himself on the couch, and again a bitter laugh broke out from the depths of his heart.  He thought of how his wife had driven him out of the house; he pictured to himself Liza’s position, and then he shut his eyes, and wrung his hands above his head.

At length Lemm returned and brought him a scrap of paper, on which Liza had traced the following words in pencil:  “We cannot see each other to-day; perhaps we may to-morrow evening.  Farewell.”  Lavretsky thanked Lemm absently and stiffly, and then went home.

He found his wife at breakfast.  Ada, with her hair all in curl-papers, and dressed in a short white frock with blue ribbons, was eating a mutton cutlet.  Varvara Pavlovna rose from her seat the moment Lavretsky entered the room, and came towards him with an expression of humility on her face.  He asked her to follow him into his study, and when there he shut the door and began to walk up and down the room.  She sat down, folded her hands, and began to follow his movements with eyes which were still naturally beautiful, besides having their lids dyed a little.