aiden chamber.

Marfa Timofeevna came to her rescue.

"Well, if you will not amuse him," she said, "who is to amuse him,
poor fellow? I am too old for him; he is too clever for me; and as to
Nastasia Carpovna, he is too old for her. It's only boys she cares
for."

"How can I amuse Fedor Ivanovich?" said Liza. "I would rather play him
something on the piano, if he likes," she continued irresolutely.

"That's capital. You're a clever creature," replied Marfa Timofeevna.
"Go down-stairs, my dears. Come back again when you've clone; but just
now, here I'm left the _durachka_,[A] so I'm savage. I must have my
revenge."

[Footnote A: In the game of _durachki_, the player who remains the
last is called the _durachok_ or _durachka_, diminutive of _durak_,
a fool. The game somewhat resembles our own "Old Bachelor" or "Old
Maid."]

Liza rose from her chair, and so did Lavretsky. As she was going
down-stairs, Liza stopped.

"What they say is true," she began. "The human heart is full of
contradictions. Your example ought to have frightened me--ought to
have made me distrust marrying for love, and yet I--".

"You've refused him?" said Lavretsky, interrupting her.

"No; but I have not accepted him either. I told him every thing--all
my feelings on the subject--and I asked him to wait a little. Are you
satisfied?" she asked with a sudden smile: and letting her hand skim
lightly along the balustrade, she ran down-stairs.

"What shall I play you?" she asked, as she opened the piano.

"Whatever you like," answered Lavretsky, taking a seat where he could
look at her.

Liza began to play, and went on for some time with-out lifting her
eyes from her fingers. At last she looked at Lavretsky, and stopped
playing. The expression of his face seemed so strange and unusual to
her.

"What is the, matter?" she asked.

"Nothing," he replied. "All is well with me at present. I feel happy
on your account; it makes me glad to look at you--do go on."

"I think," said Liza, a few minutes later, "if he had really loved me
he would not have written that letter; he ought to have felt that I
could not answer him just now."

"That doesn't matter," said Lavretsky; "what does matter is that you
do not love him."

"Stop! What is that you are saying? The image of your dead wife is
always haunting me, and I feel afraid of you."

"Doesn't my Liza play well, Woldemar?" Madame Kalitine was saying at
this moment to Panshine.

"Yes," replied