Lisa was confused, and went gently into the flower-garden towards Lenotchka and Shurotchka.

“But I am glad I showed you that newspaper,” said Lavretsky, walking after her; “already I have grown used to hiding nothing from you, and I hope you will repay me with the same confidence.”

“Do you expect it?” said Lisa, standing still.  “In that case I ought—­but no!  It is impossible.”

“What is it?  Tell me, tell me.”

“Really, I believe I ought not—­after all, though,” added Lisa, turning to Lavretsky with a smile, “what’s the good of half confidence?  Do you know I received a letter today?”

“From Panshin?”

“Yes.  How did you know?”

“He asks for your hand?”

“Yes,” replied Lisa, looking Lavretsky straight in the face with a serious expression.

Lavretsky on his side looked seriously at Lisa.

“Well, and what answer have you given him?” he managed to say at last.

“I don’t know what answer to give,” replied Lisa, letting her clasped hands fall.

“How is that?  Do you love him, then?”

“Yes, I like him; he seems a nice man.”

“You said the very same thing, and in the very same words, three days ago.  I want to know do you love him with that intense passionate feeling which we usually call love?”

“As you understand it—­no.”

“You’re not in love with him?”

“No.  But is that necessary?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mamma likes him,” continued Lisa, “he is kind; I have nothing against him.”

“You hesitate, however.”

“Yes—­and perhaps—­you, your words are the cause of it.  Do you remember what you said three days ago?  But that is weakness.”

“O my child!” cried Lavretsky suddenly, and his voice was shaking, “don’t cheat yourself with sophistries, don’t call weakness the cry of your heart, which is not ready to give itself without love.  Do not take on yourself such a fearful responsibility to this man, whom you don’t love, though you are ready to belong to him.”

“I’m obeying, I take nothing on myself,” Lisa was murmuring.

“Obey your heart; only that will tell you the truth,” Lavretsky interrupted her.  “Experience, prudence, all that is dust and ashes!  Do not deprive yourself of the best, of the sole happiness on earth.”

“Do you say that, Fedor Ivanitch?  You yourself married for love, and were you happy?”

Lavretsky threw up his arms.

“Ah, don’t talk about me!  You can’t even understand all that a young, inexperienced, badly brought-up boy may mistake for love!  Indeed though, after all, why should I be unfair to myself?  I told you just now that I had not had happiness.  No!  I was not happy!”

“It seems to me, Fedor Ivanitch,” Lisa murmured in a low voice—­when she did not agree with the person whom she was talking, she always dropped her voice; and now too she was deeply moved—­“happiness on earth does not depend on ourselves.”