‘What’s bad, he isn’t honest. He’s a clever man, certainly; he ought to know the value of his own words, and he brings them out as if they were worth something to him. I don’t dispute that he’s a fine speaker, but not in the Russian style. And indeed, after all, fine speaking is pardonable in a boy, but at his years it is disgraceful to take pleasure in the sound of his own voice, and to show off!’
‘I think, Mihailo Mihailitch, it’s all the same for those who hear him, whether he is showing off or not.’
‘Excuse me, Alexandra Pavlovna, it is not all the same. One man says a word to me and it thrills me all over, another may say the same thing, or something still finer—and I don’t prick up my ears. Why is that?’
‘You don’t, perhaps,’ put in Alexandra Pavlovna.
‘I don’t,’ retorted Lezhnyov, ‘though perhaps my ears are long enough. The point is, that Rudin’s words seem to remain mere words, and never to pass into deeds—and meanwhile even words may trouble a young heart, may be the ruin of it.’
‘But whom do you mean, Mihailo Mihailitch?’
Lezhnyov paused.
‘Do you want to know whom I mean, Natalya Alexyevna?’
Alexandra Pavlovna was taken aback for a moment, but she began to smile the instant after.
‘Really,’ she began, ‘what queer ideas you always have! Natalya is still a child; and besides, if there were anything in what you say, do you suppose Darya Mihailovna——’