"Nevertheless I shall find the time wearisome," she repeated.
"Not for long."
"Why not?"
"Because, as you have very truly said, things never seem dull to you save when your régime is infringed. In fact, with such faultless regularity have you ordered your life that there abides in it no room for dullness or depression or any other burdensome feeling."
"And I too am faultless, I suppose—I have ordered my life too regularly ever to err?"
"I daresay. Take an example of it. In a few minutes it will be ten o'clock; when, as I know by experience, you will request me to leave your presence."
"Oh no, I shall not. You may remain. By the way, please open that window. The room is simply stifling."
Bazarov rose and unfastened the casement, which swung backwards with a snap, for the reason that he had not expected it to open so easily, and that his hands were trembling. Into the aperture glanced the soft, warm night with its vista of dark vault of heaven, faintly rustling trees, and pure, free, sweet-scented air.
"Also, please pull down the blind, and then resume your seat. I wish to have a little further talk with you before you go. Tell me something about yourself—a person to whom, by the way, you never refer."
"I would rather converse with you on more profitable subjects."