e the forebodings of love. Katya raised the top of the piano,
and not looking at Arkady, she said in a low voice--

'What am I to play you?'

'What you like,' answered Arkady indifferently.

'What sort of music do you like best?' repeated Katya, without changing
her attitude.

'Classical,' Arkady answered in the same tone of voice.

'Do you like Mozart?'

'Yes, I like Mozart.'

Katya pulled out Mozart's Sonata-Fantasia in C minor. She played very
well, though rather over correctly and precisely. She sat upright and
immovable, her eyes fixed on the notes, and her lips tightly
compressed, only at the end of the sonata her face glowed, her hair
came loose, and a little lock fell on to her dark brow.

Arkady was particularly struck by the last part of the sonata, the part
in which, in the midst of the bewitching gaiety of the careless melody,
the pangs of such mournful, almost tragic suffering, suddenly break
in.... But the ideas stirred in him by Mozart's music had no reference
to Katya. Looking at her, he simply thought, 'Well, that young lady
doesn't play badly, and she's not bad-looking either.'

When she had finished the sonata, Katya without taking her hands from
the keys, asked, 'Is that enough?' Arkady declared that he could not
venture to trouble her again, and began talking to her about Mozart; he
asked her whether she had chosen that sonata herself, or some one had
recommended it to her. But Katya answered him in monosyllables; she
withdrew into herself, went back into her shell. When this happened to
her, she did not very quickly come out again; her face even assumed at
such times an obstinate, almost stupid expression. She was not exactly
shy, but diffident, and rather overawed by her sister, who had educated
her, and who had no suspicion of the fact. Arkady was reduced at last
to calling Fifi to him, and with an affable smile patting him on the
head to give himself an appearance of being at home.

Katya set to work again upon her flowers.

Bazarov meanwhile was losing and losing. Anna Sergyevna played cards in
masterly fashion; Porfiry Platonitch, too, could hold his own in the
game. Bazarov lost a sum which, though trifling in itself, was not
altogether pleasant for him. At supper Anna Sergyevna again turned the
conversation on botany.

'We will go for a walk to-morrow morning,' she said to him; 'I want you
to teach me the Latin names of the wild flowers and their species.'

'What use are the