her, and
to remain in the same room with her as a mere visitor among other
visitors was irksome to him, so he determined to go away.

When taking leave of her, he contrived to repeat that he would come
next day, and he added that he counted on her friendship. "Come," she
replied, with the same perplexed look still on her face.

After Lavretsky's departure, Panshine grew animated. He began to give
advice to Gedeonovsky, and to make mock love to Madame Belenitsine,
and at last he sang his romance. But when gazing at Liza, or talking
to her, he maintained the same air as before, one of deep meaning,
with a touch of sadness in it.

All that night also, Lavretsky did not sleep. He was not unhappy, he
was not agitated; on the contrary, he was perfectly calm; but he could
not sleep. He was not even recalling the past. He simply looked at his
present life. His heart beat firmly and equably, the hours flew by, he
did not even think about sleeping. Only at times there came into his
head the thought, "Surely this is not true, this is all nonsense." And
then he would stop short, and presently let his head fall back and
again betake himself to gazing into the stream of his life.

XXVII.

Madame Kalitine did not receive Lavretsky over cordially, when he paid
her a visit next day. "Ah! he's making a custom of it," she thought.
She was not of herself disposed to like him very much, and Panshine,
who had got her thoroughly under his influence, had praised him the
evening before in a very astutely disparaging manner. As she did not
treat him as an honored guest, nor think it necessary to trouble
herself about one who was a relation, almost a member of the family
circle, before half an hour had elapsed he went out into the garden.
There he and Liza strolled along one of the alleys, while Lenochka
and Shurochka played around the flower-pots at a little distance from
them.

Liza was as quiet as usual, but more than usually pale. She took
the folded leaf of the newspaper from her pocket, and handed it to
Lavretsky.

"That is terrible news," she said.

Lavretsky made no reply.

"But, after all, perhaps it may not be true."

"That is why I asked you not to mention it to any one."

Liza walked on a little farther.

"Tell me," she began, "are not you sorry?--not at all sorry?"

"I don't know myself what I feel," answered Lavretsky.

"But you loved her once?"

"I did."

"Very much?"

--"Yes."

"And yet you are no