wrinkled old face an even
more ill-natured expression. Katya was not well; she did not leave her
room. Arkady suddenly realised that he was at least as anxious to see
Katya as Anna Sergyevna herself. The four hours were spent in
insignificant discussion of one thing and another; Anna Sergyevna both
listened and spoke without a smile. It was only quite at parting that
her former friendliness seemed, as it were, to revive.

'I have an attack of spleen just now,' she said; 'but you must not pay
attention to that, and come again--I say this to both of you--before
long.'

Both Bazarov and Arkady responded with a silent bow, took their seats
in the coach, and without stopping again anywhere, went straight home
to Maryino, where they arrived safely on the evening of the following
day. During the whole course of the journey neither one nor the other
even mentioned the name of Madame Odintsov; Bazarov, in particular,
scarcely opened his mouth, and kept staring in a side direction away
from the road, with a kind of exasperated intensity.

At Maryino every one was exceedingly delighted to see them. The
prolonged absence of his son had begun to make Nikolai Petrovitch
uneasy; he uttered a cry of joy, and bounced about on the sofa,
dangling his legs, when Fenitchka ran to him with sparkling eyes, and
informed him of the arrival of the 'young gentlemen'; even Pavel
Petrovitch was conscious of some degree of agreeable excitement, and
smiled condescendingly as he shook hands with the returned wanderers.
Talk, questions followed; Arkady talked most, especially at supper,
which was prolonged long after midnight. Nikolai Petrovitch ordered up
some bottles of porter which had only just been sent from Moscow, and
partook of the festive beverage till his cheeks were crimson, and he
kept laughing in a half-childish, half-nervous little chuckle. Even the
servants were infected by the general gaiety. Dunyasha ran up and down
like one possessed, and was continually slamming doors; while Piotr
was, at three o'clock in the morning, still attempting to strum a
Cossack waltz on the guitar. The strings gave forth a sweet and
plaintive sound in the still air; but with the exception of a small
preliminary flourish, nothing came of the cultured valet's efforts;
nature had given him no more musical talent than all the rest of the
world.

But meanwhile things were not going over harmoniously at Maryino, and
poor Nikolai Petrovitch was having a bad ti