'And to me it's all the same whether I'm young or old.'

'How do you mean--it's all the same? It's not possible what you say.'

'Well, judge for yourself, Fedosya Nikolaevna, what good is my youth to
me. I live alone, a poor lonely creature ...'

'That always depends on you.'

'It doesn't at all depend on me! At least, some one ought to take pity
on me.'

Fenitchka gave a sidelong look at Bazarov, but said nothing. 'What's
this book you have?' she asked after a short pause.

'That? That's a scientific book, very difficult.'

'And are you still studying? And don't you find it dull? You know
everything already I should say.'

'It seems not everything. You try to read a little.'

'But I don't understand anything here. Is it Russian?' asked Fenitchka,
taking the heavily bound book in both hands. 'How thick it is!'

'Yes, it's Russian.'

'All the same, I shan't understand anything.'

'Well, I didn't give it you for you to understand it. I wanted to look
at you while you were reading. When you read, the end of your little
nose moves so nicely.'

Fenitchka, who had set to work to spell out in a low voice the article
on 'Creosote' she had chanced upon, laughed and threw down the book ...
it slipped from the seat on to the ground.

'Nonsense!'

'I like it too when you laugh,' observed Bazarov.

'I like it when you talk. It's just like a little brook babbling.'

Fenitchka turned her head away. 'What a person you are to talk!' she
commented, picking the flowers over with her finger. 'And how can you
care to listen to me? You have talked with such clever ladies.'

'Ah, Fedosya Nikolaevna! believe me; all the clever ladies in the world
are not worth your little elbow.'

'Come, there's another invention!' murmured Fenitchka, clasping her
hands.

Bazarov picked the book up from the ground.

'That's a medical book; why do you throw it away?'

'Medical?' repeated Fenitchka, and she turned to him again. 'Do you
know, ever since you gave me those drops--do you remember?--Mitya has
slept so well! I really can't think how to thank you; you are so good,
really.'

'But you have to pay doctors,' observed Bazarov with a smile. 'Doctors,
you know yourself, are grasping people.'

Fenitchka raised her eyes, which seemed still darker from the whitish
reflection cast on the upper part of her face, and looked at Bazarov.
She did not know whether he was joking or not.

'If you please, we shall be delighted.... I must as