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...."

"I am listening,--I am taking nothing upon myself ..." Liza was
beginning.

"Listen to your heart; it alone will tell you the truth,"--Lavretzky
interrupted her.... "Experience, reasoning--all that is stuff and
nonsense! Do not deprive yourself of the best, the only happiness on
earth."

"Is it you, Feodor Ivanitch, who are speaking thus? You, yourself,
married for love--and were you happy?"

Lavretzky wrung his hands.

"Akh, do not talk to me of that! You cannot even understand all that a
young, untried, absurdly educated lad can mistake for love!... Yes, and
in short, why calumniate one's self? I just told you, that I had not
known happiness ... no! I was happy!"

"It seems to me, Feodor Ivanitch,"--said Liza, lowering her voice (when
she did not agree with her interlocutor, she alw