nothing more for a time. That place is the most convenient for me now."

Marya Dmitrievna was again thrown into such a state of agitation that
she became quite stiff, and her hands hung lifeless by her sides.
Panshin came to her support by entering into conversation with
Lavretsky. Marya Dmitrievna regained her composure, she leaned back in
her arm-chair and now and then put in a word. But she looked all the
while with such sympathy at her guest, sighed so significantly, and
shook her head so dejectedly, that the latter at last lost patience and
asked her rather sharply if she was unwell.

"Thank God, no," replied Marya Dmitrievna; "why do you ask?"

"Oh, I fancied you didn't seem to be quite yourself."

Marya Dmitrievna assumed a dignified and somewhat offended air. "If
that's how the land lies," she thought, "it's absolutely no matter to
me; I see, my good fellow, it's all like water on a duck's back for you;
any other man would have wasted away with grief, but you've grown fat on
it." Marya Dmitrievna did not mince matters in her own mind; she
expressed herself with more elegance aloud.

Lavretsky certainly did not look like the victim of fate. His
rosy-cheeked typical Russian face, with its large white brow, rather
thick nose, and wide straight lips seemed breathing with the wild health
of the steppes, with vigorous primaeval energy. He was splendidly
well-built, and his fair curly hair stood up on his head like a boy's.
It was only in his blue eyes, with their overhanging brows and somewhat
fixed look, that one could trace an expression, not exactly of
melancholy, nor exactly of weariness, and his voice had almost too