“Yes,” replied Lisa, “it is only a trifle, but not bad.” “And what do you think,” inquired Lavretsky; “is he a good musician?” “I think he has great talent for music; but so far he has not worked at it, as he should.” “Ah! And is he a good sort of man?” Lisa laughed and glanced quickly at Fedor Ivanitch. “What a queer question!” she exclaimed, drawing up her line and throwing it in again further off. “Why is it queer? I ask you about him, as one who has only lately come here, as a relation.” “A relation?” “Yes. I am, it seems, a sort of uncle of yours?” “Vladimir Nikolaitch has a good heart,” said Lisa, “and he is clever; maman likes him very much.” “And do you like him?” “He is nice; why should I not like him?” “Ah!” Lavretsky uttered and ceased speaking. A half-mournful, half-ironical expression passed over his face. His steadfast gaze embarrassed Lisa, but he went on smiling.--“Well, God grant them happiness!” he muttered at last, as though to himself, and turned away his head. Lisa flushed. “You are mistaken, Fedor Ivanitch,” she said: “you are wrong in thinking .... But don’t you like Vladimir Nikolaitch?” she asked suddenly. “No, I don’t.” “Why?” “I think he has no heart.” The smile left Lisa’s face. “It is your habit to judge people severely,” she observed after a long silence. “I don’t think it is. What right have I to judge others severely, do you suppose, when I must ask for indulgence myself? Or have you forgotten that I am a laughing stock to everyone, who is not too indifferent even to scoff?... By the way,” he added, “did you keep your promise?” “What promise?” “Did you pray for me?” “Yes, I prayed for you, and I pray for you every day. But please do not speak lightly of that.” Lavretsky began to assure Lisa that the idea of doing so had never entered his head, that he had the deepest reverence for every conviction; then he went off into a discourse upon religion, its significance in the history of mankind, the significance of Christianity. “One must be a Christian,” observed Lisa, not without some effort, “not so as to know the divine... and the... earthly, but because every man has to die.” Lavretsky raised his eyes in involuntary astonishment upon Lisa and met her gaze. “What a strange saying you have just uttered!” he said. “It is not my saying,” she replied. “Not yours.... But what made you speak of death?” “I don’t know. I often think of it.” “Often?” “Yes.” “One would not suppose so, looking at you now; you have such a bright, happy face, you are smiling.” “Yes, I am very happy just now,” replied Lisa simply. Lavretsky would have liked to seize both her hands, and press them warmly. “Lisa, Lisa!” cried Marya Dmitrievna, “do come here, and look what a fine carp I have caught.”