She turned away her head, and fell to sorting her flowers. Presently she resumed:
"Why do you love to hear me speak? You must have talked to many much finer and cleverer ladies?"
"I assure you, nevertheless, that all the I fine and clever ladies' in the world are worth less than your little finger."
"Oh, come!" And she crossed her hands.
Bazarov picked up the book.
"It is a work on medicine," he observed. "Why did you throw it away?"
"It is a work on medicine?" she re-echoed, and turned to him again. "Do you know, ever since you gave me those capsules—you remember them, do you not?—Mitia has slept splendidly! I can never sufficiently thank you. You are indeed good!"
"But the physician ought to be paid his fee," remarked he with a smile. "Doctors never do their work for nothing."
Upon this she raised her eyes. They looked all the darker for the brilliant glare which was beating upon the upper portion of her face. As a matter of fact, she was trying to divine whether he was speaking in earnest or in jest.
"Of course I should be delighted to pay you!" she said. "But first I must mention the matter to Nikolai Petrovitch."