They met in the porch; she greeted him with cheerful and amiable dignity. The sun brilliantly illuminated the young grass in the churchyard, and the motley-hued gowns and kerchiefs of the women; the bells of the neighbouring churches were booming aloft; the sparrows were chirping in the hedgerows. Lavretzky stood with head uncovered, and smiled; a light breeze lifted his hair, and the tips of the ribbons on Liza's hat. He put Liza into her carriage, distributed all his small change to the poor, and softly wended his way homeward. XXXII Difficult days arrived for Feodor Ivanitch. He found himself in a constant fever. Every morning he went to the post-office, with excitement broke the seals of his letters and newspapers,--and nowhere did he find anything which might have confirmed or refuted the fateful rumour. Sometimes he became repulsive even to himself: "Why am I thus waiting,"--he said to himself, "like a crow for blood, for the sure news of my wife's death?" He went to the Kalitins' every day; but even there he was no more at his ease: the mistress of the house openly sulked at him, received him with condescension; Panshin treated him with exaggerated courtesy; Lemm had become misanthropic, and hardly even bowed to him,--and, chief of all, Liza seemed to avoid him. But when she chanced to be left alone with him, in place of her previous trustfulness, confusion manifested itself in her: she did not know what to say to him, and he himself felt agitation. In the course of a few days, Liza had become quite different from herself as he had previously known her: in her movements, her voice, in her very laugh, a secret trepidation was perceptible, an unevenness which had not heretofore existed. Marya Dmitrievna, like the genuine egoist she was, suspected nothing; but Marfa Timofeevna began to watch her favourite. Lavretzky more than once reproached himself with having shown to Liza the copy of the newspaper which he had received: he could not fail to recognise the fact, that in his spiritual condition there was an element which was perturbing to pure feeling. He also assumed that the change in Liza had been brought about by her conflict with herself, by her doubts: what answer should she give to Panshin? One day she brought him a book, one of Walter Scott's novels, which she herself had asked of him. "Have you read this book?"--he asked. "No; I do not feel in a mood for books now,"--she replied, and turned to go. "Wait a minute: I have not been alone with you for a long time. You seem to be afraid of me." "Yes." "Why so, pray?" "I do not know." Lavretzky said nothing for a while. "Tell me,"--he began:--"you have not yet made up your mind?" "What do you mean by that?"--she said, without raising her eyes. "You understand me...." Liza suddenly flushed up.