“Come here, my dear,” sounded Marya Dmitrievna’s voice.
Varvara Pavlovna went to her at once with the submissiveness of a child, and sat down on a little stool at her feet. Marya Dmitrievna had called her so as to leave her daughter, at least for a moment, alone with Panshin; she was still secretly hoping that she would come round. Besides, an idea had entered her head, to which she was anxious to give expression at once.
“Do you know,” she whispered to Varvara Pavlovna, “I want to endeavour to reconcile you and your husband; I won’t answer for my success, but I will make an effort. He has, you know, a great respect for me.” Varvara Pavlovna slowly raised her eyes to Marya Dmitrievna, and eloquently clasped her hands.
“You would be my saviour, ma tante,” she said in a mournful voice: “I don’t know how to thank you for all your kindness; but I have been too guilty towards Fedor Ivanitch; he can not forgive me.”
“But did you—in reality—” Marya Dmitrievna was beginning inquisitively.
“Don’t question me,” Varvara Pavlovna interrupted her, and she cast down her eyes. “I was young, frivolous. But I don’t want to justify myself.”
“Well, anyway, why not try? Don’t despair,” rejoined Marya Dmitrievna, and she was on the point of patting her on the cheek, but after a glance at her she had not the courage. “She is humble, very humble,” she thought, “but still she is a lioness.”
“Are you ill?” Panshin was saying to Lisa meanwhile.
“Yes, I am not well.”
“I understand you,” he brought out after a rather protracted silence. “Yes, I understand you.”