Lisa raised her head, her wearied eyes, their light almost extinct, rested upon him.... “No,” she uttered, and she drew back the hand she was holding out. “No, Lavretsky (it was the first time she had used this name), I will not give you my hand. What is the good? Go away, I beseech you. You know I love you... yes, I love you,” she added with an effort; “but no... no.”
She pressed her handkerchief to her lips.
“Give me, at least, that handkerchief.”
The door creaked... the handkerchief slid on to Lisa’s lap. Lavretsky snatched it before it had time to fall to the floor, thrust it quickly into a side pocket, and turning round met Marfa Timofyevna’s eyes.
“Lisa, darling, I fancy your mother is calling you,” the old lady declared.
Lisa at once got up and went away.
Marfa Timofyevna sat down again in her corner. Lavretsky began to take leave of her.
“Fedor,” she said suddenly.
“What is it?”
“Are you an honest man?”