Ten o’clock struck.  Marfa Timofyevna went off up-stairs to her own apartments with Nastasya Karpovna.  Lavretsky and Lisa walked across the room, stopped at the open door into the garden, looked into the darkness in the distance and then at one another, and smiled.  They could have taken each other’s hands, it seemed, and talked to their hearts’ content.  They returned to Marya Dmitrievna and Panshin, where a game of picquet was still dragging on.  The last king was called at last, and the lady of the house rose, sighing and groaning from her well-cushioned easy chair.  Panshin took his hat, kissed Marya Dmitrievna’s hand, remarking that nothing hindered some happy people now from sleeping, but that he had to sit up over stupid papers till morning, and departed, bowing coldly to Lisa (he had not expected that she would ask him to wait so long for an answer to his offer, and he was cross with her for it).  Lavretsky followed him.  They parted at the gate.  Panshin walked his! coachman by poking him in the neck with the end of his stick, took his seat in the carriage and rolled away.  Lavretsky did not want to go home.  He walked away from the town into the open country.  The night was still and clear, though there was no moon.  Lavretsky rambled a long time over the dewy grass.  He came across a little narrow path; and went along it.  It led him up to a long fence, and to a little gate; he tried, not knowing why, to push it open.  With a faint creak the gate opened, as though it had been waiting the touch of his hand.  Lavretsky went into the garden.  After a few paces along a walk of lime-trees he stopped short in amazement; he recognised the Kalitins’ garden.

He moved at once into a black patch of shade thrown by a thick clump of hazels, and stood a long while without moving, shrugging his shoulders in astonishment.

“This cannot be for nothing,” he thought.

All was hushed around.  From the direction of the house not a sound reached him.  He went cautiously forward.  At the bend of an avenue suddenly the whole house confronted him with its dark face; in two upstair-windows only a light was shining.  In Lisa’s room behind the white curtain a candle was burning, and in Marfa Timofyevna’s bedroom a lamp shone with red-fire before the holy picture, and was reflected with equal brilliance on the gold frame.  Below, the door on to the balcony gaped wide open.  Lavretsky sat down on a wooden garden-seat, leaned on his elbow, and began to watch this door and Lisa’s window.  In the town it struck midnight; a little clock in the house shrilly clanged out twelve; the watchman beat it with jerky strokes upon his board.  Lavretsky had no thought, no expectation; it was sweet to him to feel himself near Lisa, to sit in her garden on the seat where she herself had sat more than once.

The light in Lisa’s room vanished.

“Sleep well, my sweet girl,” whispered Lavretsky, still sitting motionless, his eyes fixed on the darkened window.