The dinner hour arrived.  Marfa Timofyevna came down from up-stairs, when the soup was already on the table.  She treated Varvara Pavlovna very drily, replied in half-sentences to her civilities, and did not look at her.  Varvara Pavlovna soon realised that there was nothing to be got out of this old lady, and gave up trying to talk to her.  To make up for this, Marya Dmitrievna became still more cordial to her guest; her aunt’s discourtesy irritated her.  Marfa Timofyevna, however, did not only avoid looking at Varvara Pavlovna; she did not look at Lisa either, though her eyes seemed literally blazing.  She sat as though she were of stone, yellow and pale, her lips compressed, and ate nothing.  Lisa seemed calm; and in reality, her heart was more at rest, a strange apathy, the apathy of the condemned had come upon her.  At dinner Varvara Pavlovna spoke little; she seemed to have grown timid again, and her countenance was overspread with an expression of modest melancholy.  Gedeonovsky alone enlivened the conversation with his tales, though he constantly looked timorously towards Marfa Timofyevna and coughed—­he was always overtaken by a fit of coughing when he was going to tell a lie in her presence—­but she did not hinder him by any interruption.  After dinner it seemed that Varvara Pavlovna was quite devoted to preference; at this Marya Dmitrievna was so delighted that she felt quite overcome, and thought to herself, “Really, what a fool Fedor Ivanitch must be; not able to appreciate a woman like this!”

She sat down to play cards together with her and Gedeonovsky, and Marfa Timofyevna led Lisa away up-stairs with her, saying that she looked shocking, and that she must certainly have a headache.

“Yes, she has an awful headache,” observed Marya Dmitrievna, turning to Varvara Pavlovna and rolling her eyes, “I myself have often just such sick headaches.”

“Really!” rejoined Varvara Pavlovna.

Lisa went into her aunt’s room, and sank powerless into a chair.  Marfa Timofyevna gazed long at her in silence, slowly she knelt down before her—­and began still in the same silence to kiss her hands alternately.  Lisa bent forward, crimsoning—­and began to weep, but she did not make Marfa Timofyevna get up, she did not take away her hands, she felt that she had not the right to take them away, that she had not the right to hinder the old lady from expressing her penitence, and her sympathy, from begging forgiveness for what had passed the day before.  And Marfa Timofyevna could not kiss enough those poor, pale, powerless hands, and silent tears flowed from her eyes and from Lisa’s; while the cat Matross purred in the wide arm-chair among the knitting wool, and the long flame of the little lamp faintly stirred and flickered before the holy picture.  In the next room, behind the door, stood Nastasya Karpovna, and she too was furtively wiping her eyes with her check pocket-handkerchief rolled up in a ball.