“Ah! so you have come, then,” she said, fussing about and avoiding his eyes.  “Well, good day to you!  Well, what’s—­what’s to be done?  Where were you yesterday?  Well, she has come.  Well—­yes.  Well, it must be—­somehow or other.”

Lavretsky sank upon a chair.

“Well, sit down, sit down,” continued the old lady.  “Did you come straight up-stairs?  Yes, of course.  Eh!  You came to see after me?  Many thanks.”

The old lady paused.  Lavretsky did not know what to say to her; but she understood him.

“Liza—­yes; Liza was here just now,” she continued tying and untying the strings of her work-bag.  “She isn’t quite well.  Shurochka, where are you?  Come here, my mother; cannot you sit still a moment?  And I have a headache myself.  It must be that singing which has given me it, and the music.”

“What singing, aunt?”

“What? don’t you know?  They have already begun—­what do you call them?—­duets down there.  And all in Italian—­chi-chi and cha-cha—­regular magpies.  With their long drawn-out notes, one would think they were going to draw one’s soul out.  It’s that Panshine, and your wife too.  And how quickly it was all arranged!  Quite without ceremony, just as if among near relations.  However, one must say that even a dog will try to find itself a home somewhere.  You needn’t die outside if folks don’t chase you away from their houses.”

“I certainly must confess I did not expect this,” answered Lavretsky.  “This must have required considerable daring.”

“No, my dear, it isn’t daring with her, it is calculation.  However, God be with her!  They say you are going to send her to Lavriki.  Is that true?”

“Yes; I am going to make over that property to her.”

“Has she asked you for money?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, that request won’t be long in coming.  But—­I haven’t looked at you till now—­are you well?”

“Quite well.”

“Shurochka!” suddenly exclaimed the old lady.  “Go and tell Lizaveta Mikhailovna—­that is—­no—­ask her—­Is she down-stairs?”

“Yes.”

“Well, yes.  Ask her where she has put my book She will know all about it.”

“Very good.”

The old lady commenced bustling about again, and began to open the drawers in her commode.  Lavretsky remained quietly sitting on his chair.

Suddenly light steps were heard on the staircase—­and Liza entered.

Lavretsky stood up and bowed.  Liza remained near the door.

“Liza, Lizochka,” hurriedly began Marfa Timofeevna, “where have you—­where have you put my book?”

“What book, aunt?”

“Why, good gracious! that book.  However, I didn’t send for you—­but it’s all the same.  What are you all doing down-stairs?  Here is Fedor Ivanovich come.  How is your headache?”

“It’s of no consequence.”

“You always say, ‘It’s of no consequence.’  What are you all doing down below?—­having music again?”