“Where are you going?” he asked her.

“To service.  It is Sunday.”

“Why do you go to church?”

Lisa looked at him in silent amazement.

“I beg your pardon,” said Lavretsky; “I—­I did not mean to say that; I have come to say good-bye to you, I am starting for my village in an hour.”

“Is it far from here?” asked Lisa.

“Twenty miles.”

Lenotchka made her appearance in the doorway, escorted by a maid.

“Mind you don’t forget us,” observed Lisa, and went down the steps.

“And don’t you forget me.  And listen,” he added, “you are going to church; while you are there, pray for me, too.”

Lisa stopped short and turned round to him:  “Certainly,” she said, looking him straight in the face, “I will pray for you too.  Come, Lenotchka.”

In the drawing-room Lavretsky found Marya Dmitrievna alone.  She was redolent of eau de Cologne and mint.  She had, as she said, a headache, and had passed a restless night.  She received him with her usual languid graciousness and gradually fell into conversation.

“Vladimir Nikolaitch is really a delightful young man, don’t you think so?” she asked him.

“What Vladimir Nikolaitch?”

“Panshin to be sure, who was here yesterday.  He took a tremendous fancy to you; I will tell you a secret, mon cher cousin, he is simply crazy about my Lisa.  Well, he is of good family, has a capital position in the service, and a clever fellow, a kammer-yunker, and if it is God’s will, I for my part, as a mother, shall be well pleased.  My responsibility of course is immense; the happiness of children depends, no doubt, on parts; still I may say, up till now, for better or for worse I have done everything, I alone have been everywhere with them, that is to say, I have educated my children and taught them everything myself.  Now, indeed, I have written for a French governess from Madame Boluce.”

Marya Dmitrievna launched into a description of her cares and anxieties and maternal sentiments.  Lavretsky listened in silence, turning his hat in his hands.  His cold, weary glance embarrassed the gossiping lady.

“And do you like Lisa?” she asked.

“Lisaveta Mihalovna is an excellent girl,” replied Lavretsky, and he got up, took his leave, and went off to Marfa Timofyevna.  Marya Dmitrievna looked after him in high displeasure, and thought, “What a dolt, a regular peasant!  Well, now I understand why his wife could not remain faithful to him.”

Marfa Timofyevna was sitting in her room, surrounded by her little court.  It consisted of five creatures almost equally near to her heart; a big-cropped, learned bullfinch, which she had taken a fancy to because he had lost his accomplishments of whistling and drawing water; a very timid and peaceable little dog, Roska; an ill-tempered cat, Matross; a dark-faced, agile little girl nine years old, with big eyes and a sharp