"Yes."
These replies of Katia's were accompanied with a frank, but gentle and bashful, smile, and an upward glance half grave, half sportive. Everything in her betokened youth and freshness—her voice, the down on her cheeks, her little pink hands with their white, dimpled palms, and the slightly contracted shoulders. Also, she blushed without ceasing, and drew her breath with a fluttering respiration.
Presently Madame Odintsov turned to Bazarov.
"Surely it is only out of politeness that you are looking at those photographs?" she said. "They cannot possibly interest you. Pray move nearer to us, and let us engage in an argument."
Bazarov approached her.
"What shall we argue about?" he inquired.
"About anything you like. But first let me warn you that I am a redoubtable opponent."
"You?"
"Yes, certainly. You look surprised? Why so?"
"Because, so far as I can tell, your temperament is one of the cold and lethargic order, whereas argument needs impulsiveness."