“No—­They are playing cards.”

“Of course; she is ready for anything.  Shurochka, I see you want to run out into the garden.  Be off!”

“No, I don’t Marfa Timofeevna—­”

“No arguing, if you please.  Be off.  Nastasia Carpovna has gone into the garden by herself.  Go and keep her company.  You should show the old lady respect.”

Shurochka left the room.

“But where is my cap?  Wherever can it have got to?”

“Let me look for it,” said Liza.

“Sit still, sit still!  My own legs haven’t dropped off yet.  It certainly must be in my bed-room.”

And Marfa Timofeevna went away, after casting a side-glance at Lavretsky.  At first she left the door open, but suddenly she returned and shut it again from the outside.

Liza leant back in her chair and silently hid her face in her hands.

Lavretsky remained standing where he was.

“This is how we have had to see each other!” he said at last.

Liza let her hands fall from before her face.

“Yes,” she replied sadly, “we have soon been punished.”

“Punished!” echoed Lavretsky.  “For what have you, at all events, been punished?”

Liza looked up at him.  Her eyes did not express either sorrow or anxiety; but they seemed to have become smaller and dimmer than they used to be.  Her face was pale; even her slightly-parted lips had lost their color.

Lavretsky’s heart throbbed with pity and with love.

“You have written to me that all is over,” he whispered.  “Yes, all is over—­before it had begun.”

“All that must be forgotten,” said Liza.  “I am glad you have come.  I was going to write to you; but it is better as it is.  Only we must make the most of these few minutes.  Each of us has a duty to fulfil.  You, Fedor Ivanovich, must become reconciled with your wife.”

“Liza!”

“I entreat you to let it be so.  By this alone can expiation be made for—­for all that has taken place.  Think over it, and then you will not refuse my request.”

“Liza! for God’s sake!  You ask what is impossible.  I am ready to do every thing you tell me; but to be reconciled with her now!—­I consent to every thing, I have forgotten every thing; but I cannot do violence to my heart.  Have some pity; this is cruel!”

“But I do not ask you to do what is impossible.  Do not live with her if you really cannot do so.  But be reconciled with her,” answered Liza, once more hiding her face in her hands.  “Remember your daughter; and, besides, do it for my sake.”

“Very good,” said Lavretsky between his teeth.  “Suppose I do this—­in this I shall be fulfilling my duty; well, but you—­in what does your duty consist?”

“That I know perfectly well.”

Lavretsky suddenly shuddered.

“Surely you have not made up your mind to many Panshine?” he asked.

“Oh, no!” replied Liza, with an almost imperceptible smile.