ary at St. Petersburg, whom he wished to impress
with a favorable idea of his solidity and perspicacity. "One hundred
and one, hundred and two, heart, hundred and three," said the
measured tones of his voice, and Lavretsky could not tell which it
expressed--dislike or assurance.

"Can't I see Marfa Timofeevna?" asked Lavretsky, observing that
Panshine, with a still more dignified air than before, was about to
shuffle the cards; not even a trace of the artist was visible in him
now.

"I suppose so. She is up-stairs in her room," answered Maria
Dmitrievna. "You can ask for her."

Lavretsky went up-stairs. He found Marfa Timofeevna also at cards. She
was playing at _Durachki_ with Nastasia Carpovna. Roska barked at
him, but both the old ladies received him cordially. Marfa Timofeevna
seemed in special good humor.

"Ah, Fedia!" she said, "do sit down, there's a good fellow. We shall
have done our game directly. Will you have some preserves? Shurochka,
give him a pot of strawberries. You won't have any? Well, then, sit
there as you are. But as to smoking, you mustn't. I cannot abide your
strong tobacco; besides, it would make Matros sneeze."

Lavretsky hastened to assure her that he had not the slightest desire
to smoke.

"Have you been down-stairs?" asked the old lady. "Whom did you find
there? Is Panshine always hanging about there? But did you see Liza?
No? She was to have come here. Why there she is--as soon as one
mentions her."

Liza came into the room, caught sight of Lavretsky and blushed.

"I have only come for a moment, Marfa Timofeevna," she was beginning.

"Why for a moment?" asked the old lady. "Why are all you young people
so restless? You see I have a visitor there. Chat a little with him,
amuse him."

Liza sat down on the edge of a chair, raised her eyes to Lavretsky,
and felt at once that she could not do otherwise than let him know how
her interview with Panshine had ended. But how was that to be managed?
She felt at the same time confused and ashamed. Was it so short a time
since she had become acquainted with that man, one who scarcely ever
went to church even, and who bore the death of his wife so equably?
and yet here she was already communicating her secrets to him. It
was true that he took an interest in her; and that, on her side she
trusted him, and felt herself drawn towards him. But in spite of all
this, she felt a certain kind of modest shame--as if a stranger had
entered her pure m