The clock struck ten. Marfa Timofeevna went off to her rooms up-stairs, with Nastasya Karpovna; Lavretzky and Liza strolled through the room, halted in front of the open door to the garden, gazed into the dark distance, then at each other--and smiled; they would have liked, it appeared, to take each other by the hand, and talk their fill. They returned to Marya Dmitrievna and Panshin, whose picquet had become protracted. The last "king" came to an end at length, and the hostess rose, groaning, and sighing, from the cushion-garnished arm-chair; Panshin took his hat, kissed Marya Dmitrievna's hand, remarked that nothing now prevented other happy mortals from going to bed, or enjoying the night, but that he must sit over stupid papers until the morning dawned, bowed coldly to Liza (he had not expected that in reply to his offer of marriage, she would ask him to wait,--and therefore he was sulking at her)--and went away. Lavretzky followed him. At the gate they parted; Panshin aroused his coachman by poking him with the tip of his cane in the neck, seated himself in his drozhky, and drove off. Lavretzky did not feel like going home; he walked out beyond the town, into the fields. The night was tranquil and bright, although there was no moon; Lavretzky roamed about on the dewy grass for a long time; he came by accident upon a narrow path; he walked along it. It led him to a long fence, to a wicket-gate; he tried, without himself knowing why, to push it open: it creaked softly, and opened, as though it had been awaiting the pressure of his hand; Lavretzky found himself in a garden, advanced a few paces along an avenue of lindens, and suddenly stopped short in amazement: he recognised the garden of the Kalitins. He immediately stepped into a black blot of shadow which was cast by a thick hazel-bush, and stood for a long time motionless, wondering and shrugging his shoulders. "This has not happened for nothing," he thought.