"Come here, _ma cherie_,"--rang out Marya Dmitrievna's voice. Varvara Pavlovna instantly, with the submissiveness of a little child, went up to her, and seated herself on a small tabouret at her feet. Marya Dmitrievna had called her for the purpose of leaving her daughter alone with Panshin, if only for a moment: she still secretly cherished the hope that the girl would come to her senses. Moreover, a thought had occurred to her, to which she desired to give immediate expression. "Do you know,"--she whispered to Varvara Pavlovna:--"I want to make an effort to reconcile you with your husband: I do not guarantee success, but I will try. You know that he has great respect for me." Varvara Pavlovna slowly raised her eyes to Marya Dmitrievna, and clasped her hands prettily. "You would be my saviour, _ma tante_,"--she said, in a mournful voice:--"I do not know how to thank you for all your affection; but I am too guilty toward Feodor Ivanitch; he cannot forgive me." "But is it possible that you ... really ..." began Marya Dmitrievna, with curiosity. "Do not ask me,"--Varvara Pavlovna interrupted her, and dropped her eyes.--"I was young, giddy.... However, I do not wish to defend myself." "Well, nevertheless, why not make the effort? Do not despair,"--returned Marya Dmitrievna, and was on the point of patting her on the shoulder, but glanced at her face--and grew timid. "She is a modest, modest creature,"--she thought,--"and exactly like a young girl still." "Are you ill?"--Panshin was saying, meanwhile, to Liza. "Yes, I am not very well." "I understand you,"--he said, after a rather prolonged silence.--"Yes, I understand you." "How so?" "I understand you,"--significantly repeated Panshin, who simply did not know what to say. Liza became confused, and then said to herself: "So be it!" Panshin assumed a mysterious air, and fell silent, gazing severely to one side. "But the clock has struck eleven, I think,"--remarked Marya Dmitrievna.