Marya Dmitrievna did not give Lavretsky an over-cordial welcome when he made his appearance the following day. “Upon my word, he’s always in and out,” she thought. She did not much care for him, and Panshin, under whose influence she was, had been very artful and disparaging in his praises of him the evening before. And as she did not regard him as a visitor, and did not consider it necessary to entertain a relation, almost one of the family, it came to pass that in less than half-an hour’s time he found himself walking in an avenue in the grounds with Lisa. Lenotchka and Shurotchka were running about a few paces from them in the flower-garden.

Lisa was as calm as usual but more than usually pale. She took out of her pocket and held out to Lavretsky the sheet of the newspaper folded up small.

“That is terrible!” she said.

Lavretsky made no reply.

“But perhaps it is not true, though,” added Lisa.

“That is why I asked you not to speak of it to any one.”

Lisa walked on a little.

“Tell me,” she began: “you are not grieved? not at all?”

“I do not know myself what I feel,” replied Lavretsky.

“But you loved her once?”

“Yes.”

“Very much?”

“Yes.”

“So you are not grieved at her death?”

“She was dead to me long ago.”

“It is sinful to say that. Do not be angry with me. You call me your friend: a friend may say everything. To me it is really terrible . . . . Yesterday there was an evil look in your face . . . . Do you remember not long ago how you abused her, and she, perhaps, at that very time was dead? It is terrible. It has been sent to you as a punishment.”

Lavretsky smiled bitterly.

“Do you think so? At least, I am now free.”

Lisa gave a slight shudder.

“Stop, do not talk like that. Of what use is your freedom to you? You ought not to be thinking of that now, but of forgiveness.”

“I forgave her long ago,” Lavretsky interposed with a gesture of the hand.

“No, that is not it,” replied Lisa, flushing. “You did not understand me. You ought to be seeking to be forgiven.”

“To be forgiven by whom?”

“By whom? God. Who can forgive us, but God?”

Lavretsky seized her hand.

“Ah, Lisaveta Mihalovna, believe me,” he cried, “I have been punished enough as it is. I have expiated everything already, believe me.”

“That you cannot know,” Lisa murmured in an undertone. “You have forgotten — not long ago, when you were talking to me — you were not ready to forgive her.”

She walked in silence along the avenue.

“And what about your daughter?” Lisa asked, suddenly stopping short.

Lavretsky started.

“Oh, don’t be uneasy! I have already sent letters in all directions. The future of my daughter, as you call — as you say — is assured. Do not be uneasy.”

Lisa smiled mournfully.

“But you are right,” continued Lavretsky, “what can I do with my freedom? What good is it to me?”

“When did you get that paper?” said Lisa, without replying to his question.

“The day after your visit.”

“And is it possible you did not even shed tears?”

“No. I was thunderstruck; but where were tears to come from? Should I weep over the past? but it is utterly extinct for me! Her very fault did not destroy my happiness, but only showed me that it had never been at all. What is there to weep over now? Though indeed, who knows? I might, perhaps, have been more grieved if I had got this news a fortnight sooner.”

“A fortnight?” repeated Lisa. “But what has happened then in the last fortnight?”

Lavretsky made no answer, and suddenly Lisa flushed even more than before.

“Yes, yes, you guess why,” Lavretsky cried suddenly, “in the course of this fortnight I have come to know the value of a pure woman’s heart, and my past seems further from me than ever.”

Lisa was confused, and went gently into the flower-garden towards Lenotchka and Shurotchka.

“But I am glad I showed you that newspaper,” said Lavretsky, walking after her; “already I have grown used to hiding nothing from y............