“Calm yourself, auntie, what is the matter?” said Lisa, giving her a glass of water. “Why, I thought you did not think much of Mr. Panshin yourself.”
Marfa Timofyevna pushed away the glass.
“I can’t drink; I shall knock my last teeth out if I try to. What’s Panshin to do with it? Why bring Panshin in? You had better tell me who has taught you to make appointments at night—eh? miss?”
Lisa turned pale.
“Now, please, don’t try to deny it,” pursued Marfa Timofyevna; “Shurotchka herself saw it all and told me. I have had to forbid her chattering, but she is not a liar.”
“I don’t deny it, auntie,” Lisa uttered scarcely audibly.
“Ah, ah! That’s it, is it, miss; you made an appointment with him, that old sinner, who seems so meek?”
“No.”
“How then?”
“I went down into the drawing-room for a book; he was in the garden—and he called me.”