“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 you, and I hope you will repay me with the same confidence.”
“Do you expect it?” said Lisa, standing still. “In that case I ought—but no! It is impossible.”
“What is it? Tell me, tell me.”
“Really, I believe I ought not—after all, though,” added Lisa, turning to Lavretsky with a smile, “what’s the good of half confidence? Do you know I received a letter today?”
“From Panshin?”