At twelve o'clock on the following day, Lavretzky set out for the Kalitins'. On the way thither, he met Panshin, who galloped past him on horseback, with his hat pulled down to his very eyebrows. At the Kalitins', Lavretzky was not admitted,--for the first time since he had known them. Marya Dmitrievna was "lying down,"--so the lackey announced; "they" had a headache. Neither Marfa Timofeevna nor Lizaveta Mikhailovna was at home. Lavretzky strolled along the garden, in anxious hope of meeting Liza, but saw no one. He returned a couple of hours later, and received the same answer, in connection with which the lackey bestowed a sidelong glance upon him. It seemed to Lavretzky impolite to intrude himself upon them for a third time that day--and he decided to drive out to Vasilievskoe, where, without reference to this, he had business to attend to. On the way he constructed various plans, each more beautiful than the other; but in his aunt's hamlet, sadness fell upon him; he entered into conversation with Anton; the old man, as though expressly, had nothing but cheerless thoughts in his mind. He narrated to Lavretzky, how Glafira Petrovna, before her death, had bitten her own hand,--and, after a short pause, he added: "Every man, master--dear little father, is given to devouring himself." It was already late when Lavretzky set out on the return journey. The sounds of the preceding day took possession of him, the image of Liza arose in his soul in all its gentle transparency; he melted at the thought that she loved him,--and drove up to his little town-house in a composed and happy frame of mind. The first thing which struck him on entering the anteroom was the scent of patchouli, which was very repulsive to him; several tall trunks and coffers were standing there. The face of the valet who ran forth to receive him seemed to him strange. Without accounting to himself for his impressions, he crossed the threshold of the drawing-room.... From the couch there rose to greet him a lady in a black gown with flounces, and raising a batiste handkerchief to her pale face, she advanced several paces, bent her carefully-dressed head,--and fell at his feet.... Then only did he recognise her: the lady was--his wife. It took his breath away.... He leaned against the wall. "Theodore, do not drive me away!"--she said in French, and her voice cut his heart like a knife. He glanced at her without comprehending, yet he immediately noticed that she had grown pale and thin.