“Ah! And is he a good sort of man?”
Lisa laughed and glanced quickly at Fedor Ivanitch.
“What a queer question!” she exclaimed, drawing up her line and throwing it in again further off.
“Why is it queer? I ask you about him, as one who has only lately come here, as a relation.”
“A relation?”
“Yes. I am, it seems, a sort of uncle of yours?”
“Vladimir Nikolaitch has a good heart,” said Lisa, “and he is clever; maman likes him very much.”
“And do you like him?”
“He is nice; why should I not like him?”
“Ah!” Lavretsky uttered and ceased speaking. A half-mournful, half-ironical expression passed over his face. His steadfast gaze embarrassed Lisa, but he went on smiling.—“Well, God grant them happiness!” he muttered at last, as though to himself, and turned away his head.