"You cannot tell that," said Liza, in a low voice. "You forget. It was not long ago that you and I were talking, and you were not willing to forgive her." Both of them walked along the alley for a time in silence. "And about your daughter?" suddenly asked Liza, and then stopped short. Lavretsky shuddered. "Oh! don't disturb yourself about her. I have already sent off letters in all directions. The future of my daughter, as you--as you say--is assured. You need not trouble yourself on that score." Liza smiled sadly. "But you are right," continued Lavretsky. "What am I to do with my freedom--what use is it to me?" "When did you get this paper?" asked Liza, without answering his question. "The day after your visit." "And have not you--have not you even shed a tear?" "No; I was thunderstruck. But whither should I look for tears? Should I cry over the past? Why, all mine has been, as it were, consumed with fire. Her fault did not actually destroy my happiness; it only proved to me that for me happiness had never really existed. What, then, had I to cry for? Besides--who knows?--perhaps I should have been more grieved if I had received this news a fortnight sooner." "A fortnight!" replied Liza. "But what can have happened to make such a difference in that fortnight?" Lavretsky make no reply at first, and Liza suddenly grew still redder than before. "Yes, yes! you have guessed it!" unexpectedly cried Lavretsky. "In the course of that fortnight I have learnt what a woman's heart is like when it is pure and clear; and my past life seems even farther off from me than it used to be." Liza became a little uncomfortable, and slowly turned to where Lenochka and Shurochka were in the flower-garden. "But I am glad I showed you that newspaper," said Lavretsky, as he followed her. "I have grown accustomed to conceal nothing from you, and I hope you will confide in me equally in return." "Do you really?" said Liza, stopping still. "In that case, I ought. But, no! it is impossible." "What is it? Tell me--tell me!" "I really think I ought not.--However," added Liza, turning to Lavretsky with a smile, "what is the good of a half-confidence? Do you know, I received a letter to-day?" "From Panshine?" "Yes, from him. How did you guess that?" "And he asks for your hand?" "Yes," replied Liza, looking straight at Lavretsky with serious eyes. Lavretsky, in his turn, looked seriously at Liza. "Well, and what answer have you made him?" he said at last. "I don't know what to answer," replied Liza, unfolding her arms, and letting them fall by her side. "Why? Do you like him?" "Yes, I like him; I think he is a good man." "That is just what you told me three days ago, and in the very same words. But what I want to know is, do you love him--love him with that strong, passionate feeling which we usually call 'love'?" "In the sense in which you understand the word--No." "You are not in love with him?" "No. But is that necessary?" "How do you mean?"