Indeed, about five minutes later Lebezyatnikov returned with Sonechka. She came in greatly surprised and, as usual, timidly. She was always timid on such occasions, and was very afraid of new faces and new acquaintances, had been afraid even before, in her childhood, and was now all the more so...Pyotr Petrovich greeted her “courteously and affectionately,” though with a certain shade of some cheery familiarity, befitting, however, in Pyotr Petrovich's opinion, to such a respectable and solid man as himself with regard to such a young and, in a certain sense, interesting being. He hastened to “encourage” her and sat her down across the table from himself. Sonya sat down, looked around—at Lebezyatnikov, at the money lying on the table, and suddenly at Pyotr Petrovich again, and then could no longer tear her eyes away, as if they were riveted to him. Lebezyatnikov made a move towards the door. Pyotr Petrovich stood up, gestured to Sonya to remain seated, and stopped Lebezyatnikov at the door.

“This Raskolnikov—is he there? Has he come?” he asked him in a whisper.

“Raskolnikov? Yes. But why? Yes, he's there...He just came in, I saw him...But why?”

“Well, then I especially ask you to stay here with us, and not to leave me alone with this...girl. It's a trifling matter, but people will draw God knows what conclusions. I don't want Raskolnikov to tell them...You see what I mean?”

“Oh, I do, I do!” Lebezyatnikov suddenly understood. “Yes, you have the right. . . To be sure, in my personal opinion you're carrying your apprehensions too far, but...all the same, you have the right. I'll stay, if you like. I'll stand here at the window and not interfere with you...I think you have the right...”

Pyotr Petrovich went back to his sofa, sat down facing Sonya, looked at her attentively, and suddenly assumed an extremely imposing, even somewhat stern, expression, as if to say: “Don't you think anything of the sort, miss.” Sonya became utterly embarrassed.

“First, please make my excuses, Sofya Semyonovna, to your much respected mother...Am I right? I mean, Katerina Ivanovna is like a mother for you?” Pyotr Petrovich began quite imposingly, albeit rather affectionately. One could see that he had the most friendly intentions.

“Exactly right, sir, right, like a mother, sir,” Sonya replied hastily and fearfully.

“Well, so make my excuses to her, that owing to unrelated circumstances I am forced to stay away and will not be coming to your pancakes...I mean, memorial meal, in spite of your mother's charming invitation.”

“Right, sir, I'll tell her, at once, sir,” and Sonechka hastily jumped up from the chair.

“I haven't finished yet,” Pyotr Petrovich stopped her, smiling at her simplicity and ignorance of propriety, “and you little know me, my good Sofya Semyonovna, if you thought that for this unimportant reason, of concern to me alone, I would trouble someone such as yourself, and ask you to come and see me personally. I have a different object, miss.”

Sonya hastily sat down. The gray and iridescent bills which had not been removed from the table again began flashing in her eyes, but she quickly turned her face away and raised it towards Pyotr Petrovich: it suddenly seemed terribly indecent, especially for her, to stare at someone else's money. She tried to fix her eyes on Pyotr Petrovich's gold lorgnette, which he held in place with his left hand, and at the same time on the massive, heavy, extremely beautiful ring, with its yellow stone, on the middle finger of that hand—but suddenly she looked away from that as well, and, not knowing what else to do, ended by again staring straight into Pyotr Petrovich's eyes. After another pause, even more imposing than the previous one, the man went on:

“I happened yesterday, in passing, to exchange a few words with the unfortunate Katerina Ivanovna. Those few words were enough for me to see that she is—if I may put it so—in an unnatural condition . . .”

“Yes, sir...unnatural, sir,” Sonya kept hurriedly yessing him.

“Or, to put it more simply and clearly—she is sick.”

“Yes, sir, more simply and clear...yes, sick, sir.”

“So, miss. And thus, from a feeling of humaneness and...and...and commiseration, so to speak, I should like to be of some use, foreseeing her inevitably unfortunate lot. It seems that this entire, most destitute family now depends just on you alone.”

“Allow me to ask,” Sonya suddenly stood up, “what was it that you told her yesterday about the possibility of a pension? Because she told me yesterday that you were taking it upon yourself to obtain a pension for her. Is it true, sir?”

“By no means, miss, and in some sense it's even an absurdity. I merely alluded to temporary assistance for the widow of an official who has died in service—provided one has connections—but it appears that your deceased parent not only did not serve out his term, but had not served at all recently. In short, though there might be hope, it is quite ephemeral, because essentially there are no rights to assistance in this case, and even quite the opposite...And she's already thinking about a pension, heh, heh, heh! A perky lady!”

“Yes, sir, about a pension...Because she's trusting and kind, and her kindness makes her believe everything, and...and...and...that's how her mind is...Yes, sir...excuse me, sir,” Sonya said, and again got up to leave.

“If you please, you haven't heard me out yet, miss.”

“Right, sir, I haven't heard you out,” Sonya muttered.

“Sit down, then, miss.”

Sonya became terribly abashed and sat down again, for the third time.

“Seeing what situation she is in, with the unfortunate little ones, I should like—as I have already said—insofar as I can, to be of some use—I mean, insofar as I can, as they say, and no further. One could, for example, organize a benefit subscription for her, or a lottery, so to speak...or something of the sort—as is always done in such cases by relatives, or even by outsiders who wish generally to help. That is what I intended to tell you about. It can be done, miss.”

“Yes, sir, very good, sir...For that, sir, God will . . .” Sonya babbled, looking fixedly at Pyotr Petrovich.

“It can be done, miss, but...that's for later, miss...I mean, we could even begin today. We'll see each other in the evening, talk it over, and, so to speak, lay the foundations. Come to see me here at, say, seven o'clock. Andrei Semyonovich, I hope, will also take part... But...there is one circumstance here which ought to be mentioned beforehand and carefully. It was for this, Sofya Semyonovna, that I troubled you to come here. Namely, miss, that in my opinion to give money into the hands of Katerina Ivanovna herself is dangerous and ought not to be done; and the proof of it is—this very memorial meal today. Not having, so to speak, even a crust of daily food for tomorrow, nor... well, nor shoes, nor anything, today she buys Jamaica rum, and, I think, even Madeira, and...and...and coffee. I saw it as I passed by. Tomorrow it will all fall on you again, to the last piece of bread; now, this is absurd, miss. And therefore the subscription, in my personal opinion, ought to be done in such a way that the unfortunate widow, so to speak, does not even know about the money, and only you, for instance, know about it. Am I right in saying so?”

“I don't know, sir. It's only today that she's been like this...once in her life...she wanted so much to commemorate, to honor, to remember...otherwise she's very intelligent, sir. However, as you wish, sir, and I'll be very, very, very...and they'll all be...and God will...and the orphans, sir . . .”

Sonya did not finish, and began crying.

“So, miss. Well, do keep it in mind; and now be good enough to accept, in the interests of your relative, on this first occasion, a sum feasible for me personally. I am quite, quite anxious that my name not be mentioned in this connection. Here, miss, having my own cares, so to speak, this is all I am able to . . .”