"But you are right,"--went on Lavretzky:--"what can I do with my freedom? Of what use is it to me?" "When did you receive that newspaper?"--said Liza, making no reply to his question. "The day after your visit." "And is it possible ... is it possible that you did not even weep?" "No. I was stunned; but where were the tears to come from? Weep over the past,--but, you see, it is entirely extirpated in my case!... Her behaviour itself did not destroy my happiness, but merely proved to me that it had never existed. What was there to cry about? But, who knows?--perhaps I should have been more grieved if I had received this news two weeks earlier...." "Two weeks?"--returned Liza. "But what has happened in those two weeks?" Lavretzky made no answer, and Liza suddenly blushed more furiously than before. "Yes, yes, you have guessed it,"--interposed Lavretzky:--"in the course of those two weeks I have learned what a pure woman's soul is like, and my past has retreated still further from me." Liza became confused, and softly walked toward the flower-garden, to Lyenotchka and Schurotchka. "And I am glad that I have shown you this newspaper,"--said Lavretzky, as he followed her:--"I have already contracted the habit of concealing nothing from you, and I hope that you will repay me with the same confidence." "Do you think so?"--said Liza, and stopped short. "In that case, I ought to ... but no! That is impossible." "What is it? Speak, speak!" "Really, it seems to me that I ought not.... However," added Liza, and turned to Lavretzky with a smile:--"what is half-frankness worth?--Do you know? I received a letter to-day." "From Panshin?" "Yes, from him.... How did you know?" "He asks your hand?" "Yes,"--uttered Liza, and looked seriously in Lavretzky's eyes. Lavretzky, in his turn, gazed seriously at Liza. "Well, and what reply have you made to him?"--he said at last. "I do not know what reply to make,"--replied Liza, and dropped her clasped hands. "What? Surely, you like him?" "Yes, he pleases me; he seems to be a nice man...." "You said the same thing to me, in those very same words, three days ago. What I want to know is, whether you love him with that strong, passionate feeling which we are accustomed to call love?" "As _you_ understand it,--no." "You are not in love with him?" "No. But is that necessary?" "Of course it is!" "Mamma likes him,"--pursued Liza:--"he is amiable; I have nothing against him." "Still, you are wavering?" "Yes ... and perhaps,--your words may be the cause of it. Do you remember what you said day before yesterday? But that weakness...." "Oh, my child!"--suddenly exclaimed Lavretzky--and his voice trembled:--"do not argue artfully, do not designate as weakness the cry of your heart, which does not wish to surrender itself without love. Do not take upon yourself that terrible responsibility toward a man whom you do not love and to whom you do not wish to belong...."