"Yes, mind that they are cool. Arkady Nikolaievitch, do not stand on ceremony, but help yourself. Is Evgenii Vasilitch yet back, Anfisushka?"
"I am," called Bazarov from Arkady's room.
Vasili Ivanitch wheeled about.
"Aha!" he cried. "So you have gone to pay your friend a visit? But you are too late, amice: he and I have been having a long conversation together, and it is now breakfast time, and your mother is calling us. By the way, Evgenii, a word or two with you."
"Concerning what?"
"Concerning a peasant who is suffering from jaundice."
"Jaundice?"
"Yes, of a very chronic and stubborn kind. I have prescribed scurvy grass and St. John's wort, and ordered the man to eat carrots, and given him a dose of soda; but such things are mere palliatives—I want something of a more drastic nature. That you laugh at medicine I am, of course, aware; but none the less I feel certain that you could give me some good, practical advice. But that you can do later. At the present moment, let us go in to breakfast."
And he leapt from the bench on which he had been seated, trolling gaily the couplet:
"Let us take for our rule, for our rule let us take it,
To live but for pleasure, and never forsake it!"