‘Lizaveta Kirillovna,’ I brought out at last, ‘what did you cry for?’
‘I don’t know,’ she answered, after a short silence. She looked at me with her soft eyes still wet with tears—her look struck me as changed, and she was silent again.
‘You are very fond, I see, of nature,’ I pursued. That was not at all what I meant to say, and the last words my tongue scarcely faltered out to the end. She shook her head. I could not utter another word…. I was waiting for something … not an avowal—how was that possible? I waited for a confiding glance, a question…. But Liza looked at the ground, and kept silent. I repeated once more in a whisper: ‘Why was it?’ and received no reply. She had grown, I saw that, ill at ease, almost ashamed.
A quarter of an hour later we were sitting in the carriage drivi
