"What shall I play you?" she asked, as she opened the piano.
"Whatever you like," answered Lavretsky, taking a seat where he could look at her.
Liza began to play, and went on for some time with-out lifting her eyes from her fingers. At last she looked at Lavretsky, and stopped playing. The expression of his face seemed so strange and unusual to her.
"What is the, matter?" she asked.
"Nothing," he replied. "All is well with me at present. I feel happy on your account; it makes me glad to look at you—do go on."
"I think," said Liza, a few minutes later, "if he had really loved me he would not have written that letter; he ought to have felt that I could not answer him just now."
"That doesn't matter," said Lavretsky; "what does matter is that you do not love him."
"Stop! What is that you are saying? The image of your dead wife is always haunting me, and I feel afraid of you."
"Doesn't my Liza play well, Woldemar?" Madame Kalitine was saying at this moment to Panshine.
"Yes," replied Panshine, "exceedingly well."