make you a present of the property. It's a small
estate, but a good one. . . . On my honour, it's a good one!"

Bugrov gave a broad grin. He suddenly felt himself in the seventh
heaven.

"I will give it you. . . . This very day I will write to my steward
and send him an authorisation for completing the purchase. You must
tell everyone you have bought it. . . . Go away, I entreat you."

"Very good, I will go. I understand."

"Let us go to a notary . . . at once," said Groholsky, greatly
cheered, and he went to order the carriage.

On the following evening, when Liza was sitting on the garden seat
where her rendezvous with Ivan Petrovitch usually took place,
Groholsky went quietly to her. He sat down beside her, and took her
hand.

"Are you dull, Lizotchka?" he said, after a brief silence. "Are you
depressed? Why shouldn't we go away somewhere? Why is it we always
stay at home? We want to go about, to enjoy ourselves, to make
acquaintances. . . . Don't we?"

"I want nothing," said Liza, and turned her pale, thin face towards
the path by which Bugrov used to come to her.

Groholsky pondered. He knew who it was she expected, who it was she
wanted.

"Let us go home, Liza," he said, "it is damp here. . . ."

"You go; I'll come directly."

Groholsky pondered again.

"You are expecting him?" he asked, and made a wry face as though
his heart had been gripped with red-hot pincers.

"Yes. . . . I want to give him the socks for Misha. . . ."

"He will not come."

"How do you know?"

"He has gone away. . . ."

Liza opened her eyes wide. . . .

"He has gone away, gone to the Tchernigov province. I have given
him my estate. . . ."

Liza turned fearfully pale, and caught at Groholsky's shoulder to
save herself from falling.

"I saw him off at the steamer at three o'clock."

Liza suddenly clutched at her head, made a movement, and falling
on the seat, began shaking all over.

"Vanya," she wailed, "Vanya! I will go to Vanya. . . . Darling!"

She had a fit of hysterics. . . .

And from that evening, right up to July, two shadows could be seen
in the park in which the summer visitors took their walks. The
shadows wandered about from morning till evening, and made the
summer visitors feel dismal. . . . After Liza's shadow invariably
walked the shadow of Groholsky. . . . I call them shadows because
they had both lost their natural appearance. They had grown thin
and pale and shrunken, and looked more like sh