“Pray excuse me, my dear sir,” replied Marfa Timofeevna, “I overlooked you in my joy.  You’re just like your dear mother,” she continued, turning anew to Lavretsky, “only you always had your father’s nose, and you have it still.  Well, shall you stay here long?”

“I go away to-morrow, aunt.”

“To where?”.

“To my house at Vasilievskoe.”

“To-morrow?”

“To-morrow.”

“Well, if it must be to-morrow, so be it.  God be with you!  You know what is best for yourself.  Only mind you come and say good-bye.”  The old lady tapped him gently on the cheek.  “I didn’t suppose I should live to see you come back; not that I thought I was going to die—­no, no; I have life enough left in me for ten years to come.  All we Pestofs are long-lived—­your late grandfather used to call us double-lived; but God alone could tell how long you were going to loiter abroad.  Well, well!  You are a fine fellow—­a very fine fellow.  I dare say you can still lift ten poods[A] with one hand, as you used to do.  Your late father, if you’ll excuse my saying so, was as nonsensical as he could be, but he did well in getting you that Swiss tutor.  Do you remember the boxing matches you used to have with him?  Gymnastics, wasn’t it, you used to call them?  But why should I go on cackling like this?  I shall only prevent Monsieur Pan_shine_ (she never laid the accent on the first syllable of his name, as she ought to have done) from favoring us with his opinions.  On the whole, we had much better go and have tea.  Yes, let’s go and have it on the terrace.  We have magnificent cream—­not like what they have in your Londons and Parises.  Come away, come away; and you, Fediouchka, give me your arm.  What a strong arm you have, to be sure!  I shan’t fall while you’re by my side.”

[Footnote A:  The pood weighs thirty-six pounds.]

Every one rose and went out on the terrace, except Gedeonovsky, who slipped away stealthily.  During the whole time Lavretsky was talking with the mistress of the house, with Panshine and with Marfa Timofeevna, that old gentleman had been sitting in his corner, squeezing up his eyes and shooting out his lips, while he listened with the curiosity of a child to all that was being said.  When he left, it was that he might hasten to spread through the town the news of the recent arrival.

Here is a picture of what was taking place at eleven o’clock that same evening in the Kalitines’ house.  Down stairs, on the threshold of the drawing-room, Panshine was taking leave of Liza, and saying, as he held her hand in his:—­

“You know who it is that attracts me here; you know why I am always coming to your house.  Of what use are words when all is so clear?”