"What?" he exclaimed. "You really think it is money I want? No, I do not require of you money."
"What, then?" she queried.
"What? Well, guess."
"How can I guess?"
"Then I must tell you. I want, I want—I want one of those roses."
She burst into a peal of laughter, and clapped her hands with delight at the request. Yet the laughter was accompanied with a certain sense of relief. Bazarov eyed her.
"Ah, you must excuse my laughing, Evgenii Vasilitch," she said (bending over the seat of the bench, she fumbled among the roses). "Which sort should you prefer? A red rose or a white one?"
"A red one, and not too large."
"Then take this one," she said, sitting up again. Yet even as she spoke she drew back her outstretched hand, and, biting her lips, glanced in the direction of the entrance to the arbour, and listened intently.
"What is it?" asked Bazarov. "Do you hear Nikolai Petrovitch coming?"