Lavretsky’s heart shuddered for pity and love. “You wrote to me; all is over,” he whispered, “yes, all is over--before it had begun.” “We must forget all that,” Lisa brought out; “I am glad that you have come; I wanted to write to you, but it is better so. Only we must take advantage quickly of these minutes. It is left for both of us to do our duty. You, Fedor Ivanitch, must be reconciled with your wife.” “Lisa!” “I beg you to do so; by that alone can we expiate... all that has happened. You will think about it--and will not refuse me.” “Lisa, for God’s sake,--you are asking what is impossible. I am ready to do everything you tell me; but to be reconciled to her now!... I consent to everything, I have forgotten everything; but I cannot force my heart.... Indeed, this is cruel!” “I do not even ask of you... what you say; do not live with her, if you cannot; but be reconciled,” replied Lisa and again she hid her eyes in her hand.--“remember your little girl; do it for my sake.” “Very well,” Lavretsky muttered between his teeth: “I will do that, I suppose in that I shall fulfill my duty. But you--what does your duty consist in?” “That I know myself.” Lavretsky started suddenly. “You cannot be making up your mind to marry Panshin?” he said. Lisa gave an almost imperceptible smile. “Oh, no!” she said. “Ah, Lisa, Lisa!” cried Lavretsky, “how happy you might have been!” Lisa looked at him again. “Now you see yourself, Fedor Ivanitch, that happiness does not depend on us, but on God.” “Yes, because you--” The door from the adjoining room opened quickly and Marfa Timofyevna came in with her cap in her hand. “I have found it at last,” she said, standing between Lavretsky and Lisa; “I had laid it down myself. That’s what age does for one, alack--though youth’s not much better.” “Well, and are you going to Lavriky yourself with your wife?” she added, turning to Lavretsky. “To Lavriky with her? I don’t know,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “You are not going down-stairs.” “To-day,--no, I’m not.” “Well, well, you know best; but you, Lisa, I think, ought to go down. Ah, merciful powers, I have forgotten to feed my bullfinch. There, stop a minute, I’ll soon--” And Marfa Timofyevna ran off without putting on her cap. Lavretsky walked quickly up to Lisa. “Lisa,” he began in a voice of entreaty, “we are parting for ever, my heart is torn,--give me your hand at parting.” Lisa raised her head, her wearied eyes, their light almost extinct, rested upon him.... “No,” she uttered, and she drew back the hand she was holding out. “No, Lavretsky (it was the first time she had used this name), I will not give you my hand. What is the good? Go away, I beseech you. You know I love you... yes, I love you,” she added with an effort; “but no... no.” She pressed her handkerchief to her lips. “Give me, at least, that handkerchief.”