“I have found it at last, she said, standing between Lavretsky and Lisa; “I had laid it down myself.  That’s what age does for one, alack—­though youth’s not much better.”

“Well, and are you going to Lavriky yourself with your wife?” she added, turning to Lavretsky.

“To Lavriky with her?  I don’t know,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.

“You are not going down-stairs.”

“To-day,—­no, I’m not.”

“Well, well, you know best; but you, Lisa, I think, ought to go down.  Ah, merciful powers, I have forgotten to feed my bullfinch.  There, stop a minute, I’ll soon—­” And Marfa Timofyevna ran off without putting on her cap.

Lavretsky walked quickly up to Lisa.

“Lisa,” he began in a voice of entreaty, “we are parting for ever, my heart is torn,—­give me your hand at parting.”

Lisa raised her head, her wearied eyes, their light almost extinct, rested upon him . . . .  “No,” she uttered, and she drew back the hand she was holding out.  “No, Lavretsky (it was the first time she had used this name), I will not give you my hand.  What is the good?  Go away, I beseech you.  You know I love you . . . yes, I love you,” she added with an effort; “but no . . . no.”

She pressed her handkerchief to her lips.

“Give me, at least, that handkerchief.”

The door creaked . . . the handkerchief slid on to Lisa’s lap.  Lavretsky snatched it before it had time to fall to the floor, thrust it quickly into a side pocket, and turning round met Marfa Timofyevna’s eyes.

“Lisa, darling, I fancy your mother is calling you,” the old lady declared.

Lisa at once got up and went away.

Marfa Timofyevna sat down again in her corner.  Lavretsky began to take leave of her.

“Fedor,” she said suddenly.

“What is it?”

“Are you an honest man?”

“What?”

“I ask you, are you an honest man?”

“I hope so.”

“H’m.  But give me your word of honour that you will be an honest man.”

“Certainly.  But why?”

“I know why.  And you too, my dear friend, if you think well, you’re no fool—­will understand why I ask it of you.  And now, good-bye, my dear.  Thanks for your visit; and remember you have given your word, Fedya, and kiss me.  Oh, my dear, it’s hard for you, I know; but there, it’s not easy for any one.  Once I used to envy the flies; I thought it’s for them it’s good to be alive but one night I heard a fly complaining in a spider’s web—­no, I think, they too have their troubles.  There’s no help, Fedya; but remember your promise all the same.  Good-bye.”

Lavretsky went down the back staircase, and had reached the gates when a man-servant overtook him.

“Marya Dmitrievna told me to ask you to go in to her,” he commenced to Lavretsky.

“Tell her, my boy, that just now I can’t—­” Fedor Ivanitch was beginning.