"Don't forget me either. By the way," he continued, "you are going to church; say a prayer for me too, while you are there."
Liza stopped and turned towards him.
"Very well," she said, looking him full in the face. "I will pray for you, too. Come, Lenochka."
Lavretsky found Maria Dmitrievna alone in the drawing-room, which was redolent of Eau de Cologne and peppermint. Her head ached, she said, and she had spent a restless night.
She received him with her usual languid amiability, and by degrees began to talk.
"Tell me," she asked him, "is not Vladimir Nikolaevich a very agreeable young man?"
"Who is Vladimir Nikolaevich?"
"Why Panshine, you know, who was here yesterday. He was immensely delighted with you. Between ourselves I may mention, mon cher cousin, that he is perfectly infatuated with my Liza. Well, he is of good family, he is getting on capitally in the service, he is clever, and besides he is a chamberlain; and if such be the will of God—I, for my part, as a mother, shall be glad of it. It is certainly a great responsibility; most certainly the happiness of children depends upon their parents. But this much must be allowed. Up to the present time, whether well or ill, I have done every thing myself, and entirely by myself. I have brought up my children and taught them every thing myself—and now I have just written to Maclame Bulous for a governess—"
Maria Dmitrievna launched out into a description of her cares, her efforts, her maternal feelings. Lavretsky listened to her in silence, and twirled his hat in his hands. His cold, unsympathetic look at last disconcerted the talkative lady.
"And what do you think of Liza?" she asked.