"My respects, Marfa Timofyevna," said Panshin, approaching the delighted
old lady from one side with a low bow.

"Pardon me, sir," replied Marfa Timofyevna, "for not observing you in my
delight. You have grown like your mother, the poor darling," she went on
turning again to Lavretsky, "but your nose was always your father's, and
your father's it has remained. Well, and are you going to be with us for
long?"

"I am going to-morrow, aunt."

"Where?"

"Home to Vassilyevskoe."

"To-morrow?"

"Yes, to-morrow."

"Well, if to-morrow it must be. God bless you--you know best. Only
mind you come and say good-bye to me." The old woman patted his cheek.
"I did not think I should be here to see you; not that I have made up my
mind to die yet a while--I shall last another ten years, I daresay: all
we Pestovs live long; your late grandfather used to say we had two
lives; but you see there was no telling how much longer you were going
to dangle about abroad. Well, you're a fine lad, a fine lad; can you
lift twenty stone with one hand as you used to do, eh? Your late pap was
fantastical in some things, if I may say so; but he did well in having
that Swiss to bring you up; do you remember you used to fight with your
fists with him?--gymnastics, wasn't it they called it? But there, why I