"Yes."
"One would not say so, to look at you now: you have such a merry, bright face, you are smiling...."
"Yes, I am very merry now,"—returned Liza ingenuously.
Lavrétzky felt like seizing both her hands, and clasping them tightly.
"Liza, Liza!"—called Márya Dmítrievna,—"come hither, look! What a carp I have caught!"
"Immediately, maman,"—replied Liza, and went to her, but Lavrétzky remained on his willow-tree.
"I talk with her as though I were not a man whose life is finished," he said to himself. As she departed, Liza had hung her hat on a bough; with a strange, almost tender sentiment, Lavrétzky gazed at the hat, at its long, rather crumpled ribbons. Liza speedily returned to him, and again took up her stand on the raft.
"Why do you think that Vladímir Nikoláitch has no heart?"—she inquired, a few moments later.
"I have already told you, that I may be mistaken; however, time will show."
Liza became thoughtful. Lavrétzky began to talk about his manner of life at Vasílievskoe, about Mikhalévitch, about Antón; he felt impelled to talk to Liza, to communicate to her everything that occurred to his soul: she was so charming, she listened to him so attentively; her infrequent comments and replies seemed to him so simple and wise. He even told her so.