e Natalya's face was
suffused by a crimson flush, and her eyes, fastened unwaveringly on
Rudin, were both dimmed and shining.

'What splendid eyes he has!' Volintsev whispered to her.

'Yes, they are.'

'It's only a pity his hands are so big and red.'

Natalya made no reply.

Tea was brought in. The conversation became more general, but still by
the sudden unanimity with which every one was silent, directly Rudin
opened his mouth, one could judge of the strength of the impression he
had produced. Darya Mihailovna suddenly felt inclined to tease Pigasov.
She went up to him and said in an undertone, 'Why don't you speak
instead of doing nothing but smile sarcastically? Make an effort,
challenge him again,' and without waiting for him to answer, she
beckoned to Rudin.

'There's one thing more you don't know about him,' she said to him,
with a gesture towards Pigasov,--'he is a terrible hater of women, he is
always attacking them; pray, show him the true path.'

Rudin involuntarily looked down upon Pigasov; he was a head and
shoulders taller. Pigasov almost withered up with fury, and his sour
face grew pale.

'Darya Mihailovna is mistaken,' he said in an unsteady voice, 'I do not
only attack women; I am not a great admirer of the whole human species.'

'What can have given you such a poor opinion of them?' inquired Rudin.

Pigasov looked him straight in the face.

'The study of my own heart, no doubt, in which I find every day more
and more that is base. I judge of others by myself. Possibly this too is
erroneous, and I am far worse than others, but what am I to do? it's a
habit!'

'I understand you and sympathise with you!' was Rudin's rejoinder. 'What
generous soul has not experienced a yearning for self-humiliation? But
one ought not to remain in that condition from which there is no outlet
beyond.'

'I am deeply indebted for the certificate of generosity you confer on
my soul,' retorted Pigasov. 'As for my condition, there's not much amiss
with it, so that even if there were an outlet from it, it might go to
the deuce, I shouldn't look for it!'

'But that means--pardon the expression--to prefer the gratification of
your own pride to the desire to be and live in the truth.'

'Undoubtedly,' cried Pigasov, 'pride--that I understand, and you, I
expect, understand, and every one understands; but truth, what is truth?
Where is it, this truth?'

'You are repeating yourself, let me warn you,' remarked Darya