Lisa was surprised.

“Really?” she said; “I thought that I was like my maid, Nastya; I had no words of my own.  She said one day to her sweetheart:  ’You must be dull with me; you always talk so finely to me, and I have no words of my own.’”

“And thank God for it!” thought Lavretsky.

Chapter XXVII

Meanwhile the evening had come on, Marya Dmitrievna expressed a desire to return home, and the little girls were with difficulty torn away from the pond, and made ready.  Lavretsky declared that he would escort his guests half-way, and ordered his horse to be saddled.  As he was handing Marya Dmitrievna into the coach, he bethought himself of Lemm; but the old man could nowhere be found.  He had disappeared directly after the angling was over.  Anton, with an energy remarkable for his years, slammed the doors, and called sharply, “Go on, coachman!” the coach started.  Marya Dmitrievna and Lisa were seated in the back seat; the children and their maid in the front.  The evening was warm and still, and the windows were open on both sides.  Lavretsky trotted near the coach on the side of Lisa, with his arm leaning on the door—­he had thrown the reigns on the neck of his smoothly-pacing horse—­and now and then he exchanged a few words with the young girl.  The glow of sunset was! disappearing; night came on, but the air seemed to grow even warmer.  Marya Dmitrievna was soon slumbering, the little girls and the maid fell asleep also.  The coach rolled swiftly and smoothly along; Lisa was bending forward, she felt happy; the rising moon lighted up her face, the fragrant night on breeze breathed on her eyes and cheeks.  Her hand rested on the coach door near Lavretsky’s hand.  And he was happy; borne along in the still warmth of the night, never taking his eyes off the good young face, listening to the young voice that was melodious even in a whisper, as it spoke of simple, good things, he did not even notice that he had gone more than half-way.  He did not want to wake Marya Dmitrievna, he lightly pressed Lisa’s hand and said, I think we are friends now, aren’t we?” She nodded, he stopped his horse, and the coach rolled away, lightly swaying and oscillating up and down; Lavretsky turned homeward at a walking pace.  The witchery of the summer night enfolded him; all around him seemed suddenly so strange—­and at the same time so long known; so sweetly familiar.  Everywhere near and afar—­and one could see in to the far distance, though the eye could not make out clearly much of what was seen—­all was at peace; youthful, blossoming life seemed expressed in this deep peace.  Lavretsky’s horse stepped out bravely, swaying evenly to right and left; its great black shadow moved along beside it.  There was something strangely sweet in the tramp of its hoofs, a strange charm in the ringing cry of the quails.  The stars were lost in a bright mist; the moon, not yet at the full,