“A fortnight!” replied Liza.  “But what can have happened to make such a difference in that fortnight?”

Lavretsky make no reply at first, and Liza suddenly grew still redder than before.

“Yes, yes! you have guessed it!” unexpectedly cried Lavretsky.  “In the course of that fortnight I have learnt what a woman’s heart is like when it is pure and clear; and my past life seems even farther off from me than it used to be.”

Liza became a little uncomfortable, and slowly turned to where Lenochka and Shurochka were in the flower-garden.

“But I am glad I showed you that newspaper,” said Lavretsky, as he followed her.  “I have grown accustomed to conceal nothing from you, and I hope you will confide in me equally in return.”

“Do you really?” said Liza, stopping still.  “In that case, I ought.  But, no! it is impossible.”

“What is it?  Tell me—­tell me!”

“I really think I ought not.—­However,” added Liza, turning to Lavretsky with a smile, “what is the good of a half-confidence?  Do you know, I received a letter to-day?”

“From Panshine?”

“Yes, from him.  How did you guess that?”

“And he asks for your hand?”

“Yes,” replied Liza, looking straight at Lavretsky with serious eyes.

Lavretsky, in his turn, looked seriously at Liza.

“Well, and what answer have you made him?” he said at last.

“I don’t know what to answer,” replied Liza, unfolding her arms, and letting them fall by her side.

“Why?  Do you like him?”

“Yes, I like him; I think he is a good man.”

“That is just what you told me three days ago, and in the very same words.  But what I want to know is, do you love him—­love him with that strong, passionate feeling which we usually call ’love’?”

“In the sense in which you understand the word—­No.”

“You are not in love with him?”

“No.  But is that necessary?”

“How do you mean?”

“Mamma likes him,” continued Liza.  “He is good:  I have no fault to find with him.”

“But still you waver?”

“Yes—­and, perhaps—­you, your words are the cause of that.  Do you remember what you said the day before yesterday?  But all that is weakness—­”

“Oh, my child!” suddenly exclaimed Lavretsky, and his voice trembled as he spoke, “don’t be fatally wise—­don’t stigmatize as weakness the cry of your heart, unwilling to give itself away without love!  Do not take upon yourself so fearful a responsibility towards that man, whom you do not love, and yet to whom you would be about to belong.”

“I shall only be obeying; I shall be taking nothing upon myself,” began Liza.

“Obey your own heart, then.  It only will tell you the truth,” said Lavretsky, interrupting her.  “Wisdom, experience—­all that is mere vanity and vexation.  Do not deprive yourself of the best, the only real happiness upon earth.”