“Ah, it’s you,” she began, fidgeting about and avoiding meeting his eyes, “well, how do you do?  Well, well, what’s to be done!  Where were you yesterday?  Well, she has come, so there, there!  Well, it must . . . one way or another.”

Lavretsky dropped into a chair.

“Well, sit down, sit down,” the old lady went on.  “Did you come straight up-stairs?  Well, there, of course.  So . . . you came to see me?  Thanks.”

The old lady was silent for a little; Lavretsky did not know what to say to her; but she understood him.

“Lisa . . . yes, Lisa was here just now,” pursued Marfa Timofyevna, tying and untying the tassels of her reticule.  “She was not quite well.  Shurotchka, where are you?  Come here, my girl; why can’t you sit still a little?  My head aches too.  It must be the effect of the singing and music.”

“What singing, auntie?”

“Why, we have been having those—­upon my word, what do you call them—­duets here.  And all in Italian:  chi-chi—­and cha-cha—­like magpies for all the world with their long drawn-out notes as if they’d pull your very soul out.  That’s Panshin, and your wife too.  And how quickly everything was settled; just as though it were all among relations, without ceremony.  However, one may well say, even a dog will try to find a home; and won’t be lost so long as folks don’t drive it out.”

“Still, I confess I did not expect this,” rejoined Lavretsky; “there must be great effrontery to do this.”

“No, my darling, it’s not effrontery, it’s calculation, God forgive her!  They say you are sending her off to Lavriky; is it true?”

“Yes, I am giving up that property to Varvara Pavlovna.”

“Has she asked you for money?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, that won’t be long in coming.  But I have only now got a look at you.  Are you quite well?”

“Yes.”

“Shurotchka!” cried Marfa Timofyevna suddenly, “run and tell Lisaveta Mihalovna,—­at least, no, ask her . . . is she down-stairs?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then; ask her where she put my book? she will know.”

“Very well.”

The old lady grew fidgety again and began opening a drawer in the chest.  Lavretsky sat still without stirring in his place.

All at once light footsteps were heard on the stairs—­and Lisa came in.

Lavretsky stood up and bowed; Lisa remained at the door.

“Lisa, Lisa, darling,” began Marfa Timofyevna eagerly, “where is my book? where did you put my book?”

“What book, auntie?”

“Why, goodness me, that book!  But I didn’t call you though . . . 
There, it doesn’t matter.  What are you doing down-stairs?  Here Fedor
Ivanitch has come.  How is your head?”

“It’s nothing.”

“You keep saying it’s nothing.  What have you going on down-stairs—­music?”

No-they are playing cards.”

“Well, she’s ready for anything.  Shurotchka, I see you want a run in the garden—­run along.”