“Do you know,” he began, “I have thought a great deal about our last conversation, and I have come to this conclusion, that you are exceedingly good.”

“It certainly was not with that intention that I—­” replied Liza, and became greatly confused.

“You are exceedingly good,” repeated Lavretsky.  “I am a rough-hewn man; but I feel that every one must love you.  There is Lemm, for instance:  he’s simply in love with you.”

Liza’s eyebrows did not exactly frown, but they quivered.  This always happened with her when she heard anything she did not like.

“I felt very sorry for him to-day, with his unsuccessful romance,” continued Lavretsky.  “To be young and to want knowledge—­that is bearable.  But to have grown old and to fail in strength—­that is indeed heavy.  And the worst of it is, that one doesn’t know when one’s strength has failed.  To an old man such blows are hard to bear.  Take care! you’ve a bite—­I hear,” continued Lavretsky, after a short pause, “That M. Panshine has written a very charming romance.”

“Yes,” replied Liza, “it is a small matter; but it isn’t bad.”

“But what is your opinion about him himself?” asked Lavretsky.  “Is he a good musician?”

“I think he has considerable musical faculty.  But as yet he has not cultivated it as he ought.”

“Just so.  But is he a good man?”

Liza laughed aloud, and looked up quickly at Fedor Ivanovich.

“What a strange question!” she exclaimed, withdrawing her line from the water, and then throwing it a long way in again.

“Why strange?  I ask you about him as one who has been away from here a long time—­as a relation.”

“As a relation?”

“Yes.  I believe I am a sort of uncle of yours.”

“Vladimir Nikolaevich has a good heart,” said Liza.  “He is clever.  Mamma likes him very much.”

“But you—­do you like him?”

“He is a good man.  Why shouldn’t I like him?”

“Ah!” said Lavretsky, and became silent.  A half-sad, half-mocking expression played upon his face.  The fixed look with which he regarded her troubled Liza; but she went on smiling.

“Well, may God grant them happiness!” he murmured at last, as if to himself, and turned away his head.

Liza reddened.

“You are wrong, Fedor Ivanovich,” she said; “you are wrong in thinking—­But don’t you like Vladimir Ivanovich?” she asked suddenly.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I think he has no heart.”

The smile disappeared from Liza’s lips.

“You are accustomed to judge people severely,” she said, after a long silence.

“I don’t think so.  What right have I to judge others severely, I should like to know, when I stand in need of indulgence myself?  Or have you forgotten that it is only lazy people who do not mock me?  But tell me,” he added, “have you kept your promise?”

“What promise?”