For all that, the letter caused her to feel exceedingly uneasy. For
the first time in her life she was entering into secret and
confidential relations with a young man. His boldness alarmed her. She
reproached herself for her imprudent behavior, and knew not what to
do. Should she cease to sit at the window, and, by assuming an
appearance of indifference towards him, put a check upon the young
officer's desire for further acquaintance with her? Should she send
his letter back to him, or should she answer him in a cold and decided
manner? There was nobody to whom she could turn in her perplexity, for
she had neither female friend nor adviser. At length she resolved to
reply to him.

She sat down at her little writing table, took pen and paper, and
began to think. Several times she began her letter and then tore it
up; the way she had expressed herself seemed to her either too
inviting or too cold and decisive. At last she succeeded in writing a
few lines with which she felt satisfied.

"I am convinced," she wrote, "that your intentions are honorable, and
that you do not wish to offend me by any imprudent behavior, but our
acquaintance must not begin in such a manner. I return you your
letter, and I hope that I shall never have any cause to complain of
this undeserved slight."

The next day, as soon as Hermann made his appearance, Lizaveta rose
from her embroidery, went into the drawing-room, opened the
ventilator, and threw the letter into the street, trusting that the
young officer would have the perception to pick it up.

Hermann hastened forward, picked it up, and then repaired to a