The day passed quickly by in these meditations; and evening came.  Lavretsky went to the Kalitins’.  He walked quickly, but his pace slackened as he drew near the house.  Before the steps was standing Panshin’s light carriage.  “Come,” though Lavretsky, “I will not be an egoist”—­and he went into the house.  He met with no one within-doors, and there was no sound in the drawing-room; he opened the door and saw Marya Dmitrievna playing picquet with Panshin.  Panshin bowed to him without speaking, but the lady of the house cried, “Well, this is unexpected!” and slightly frowned.  Lavretsky sat down near her, and began to look at her cards.

“Do you know how to play picquet?” she asked him with a kind of hidden vexation, and then declared that she had thrown away a wrong card.

Panshin counted ninety, and began calmly and urbanely taking tricks with a severe and dignified expression of face.  So it befits diplomatists to play; this was no doubt how he played in Petersburg with some influential dignitary, whom he wished to impress with a favourable opinion of his solidity and maturity.  “A hundred and one, a hundred and two, hearts, a hundred and three,” sounded his voice in measured tones, and Lavretsky could not decide whether it had a ring of reproach or of self-satisfaction.

“Can I see Marfa Timofyevna?” he inquired, observing that Panshin was setting to work to shuffle the cards with still more dignity.  There was not a trace of the artist to be detected in him now.

“I think you can.  She is at home, up-stairs,” replied Marya Dmitrievna; “inquire for her.”

Lavretsky went up-stairs.  He found Marfa Timofyevna also at cards; she was playing old maid with Nastasya Karpovna.  Roska barked at him; but both the old ladies welcomed him cordially.  Marfa Timofyevna especially seemed in excellent spirits.

“Ah!  Fedya!” she began, “pray sit down, my dear.  We are just finishing our game.  Would you like some preserve?  Shurotchka, bring him a pot of strawberry.  You don’t want any?  Well, sit there; only you mustn’t smoke; I can’t bear your tobacco, and it makes Matross sneeze.”

Lavretsky made haste to assure her that he had not the least desire to smoke.

“Have you been down-stairs?” the old lady continued.  “Whom did you see there?  Is Panshin still on view?  Did you see Lisa?  No?  She was meaning to come up here.  And here she is:  speak of angels—­”

Lisa came into the room, and she flushed when she saw Lavretsky.

“I came in for a minute, Marfa Timofyevna,” she was beginning.

“Why for a minute?” interposed the old lady.  “Why are you always in such a hurry, you young people?  You see I have a visitor; talk to him a little, and entertain him.”

Lisa sat down on the edge of a chair; she raised her eyes to Lavretsky—­and felt that it was impossible not to let him know how her interview with Panshin had ended.  But how was she to do it?  She felt both awkward and ashamed.  She had not long known him, this man who rarely went to church, and took his wife’s death so calmly—­and here was she, confiding al her secrets to him. . . .  It was true he took an interest in her; she herself trusted him and felt drawn to him; but all the same, she was ashamed, as though a stranger had been into her pure, maiden bower.