ugh. But what's wrong is, that he is as
cold as ice.'

'He cold! that fiery soul cold!' interrupted Alexandra Pavlovna.

'Yes, cold as ice, and he knows it, and pretends to be fiery. What's
bad,' pursued Lezhnyov, gradually growing warm, 'he is playing a
dangerous game--not dangerous for him, of course; he does not risk a
farthing, not a straw on it--but others stake their soul.'

'Whom and what are you talking of? I don't understand you,' said
Alexandra Pavlovna.

'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----'

'Darya Mihailovna is an egoist to begin with, and lives for herself; and
then she is so convinced of her own skill in educating her children that
it does not even enter her head to feel uneasy about them. Nonsense! how
is it possible: she has but to give one nod, one majestic glance--and
all is over, all is obedience again. That's what that lady imagines; she
fancies herself a female Maecenas, a learned woman, and God knows what,
but in fact she is nothing more than a silly, worldly old woman. But
Natalya is not a baby; believe me, she thinks more, and more profoundly
too,