ll indignation boiled up in him again. He caught himself
in all sorts of 'shameful' thoughts, as though he were driven on by a
devil mocking him. Sometimes he fancied that there was a change taking
place in Madame Odintsov too; that there were signs in the expression
of her face of something special; that, perhaps ... but at that point
he would stamp, or grind his teeth, and clench his fists.

Meanwhile Bazarov was not altogether mistaken. He had struck Madame
Odintsov's imagination; he interested her, she thought a great deal
about him. In his absence, she was not dull, she was not impatient for
his coming, but she always grew more lively on his appearance; she
liked to be left alone with him, and she liked talking to him, even
when he irritated her or offended her taste, her refined habits. She
was, as it were, eager at once to sound him and to analyse herself.

One day walking in the garden with her, he suddenly announced, in a
surly voice, that he intended going to his father's place very soon....
She turned white, as though something had given her a pang, and such a
pang, that she wondered and pondered long after, what could be the
meaning of it. Bazarov had spoken of his departure with no idea of
putting her to the test, of seeing what would come of it; he never
'fabricated.' On the morning of that day he had an interview with his
father's bailiff, who had taken care of him when he was a child,
Timofeitch. This Timofeitch, a little old man of much experience and
astuteness, with faded yellow hair, a weather-beaten red face, and tiny
tear-drops in his shrunken eyes, unexpectedly appeared before Bazarov,
in his shortish overcoat of stout greyish-blue cloth, girt with a strip
of leather, and in tarred boots.

'Hullo, old man; how are you?' cried Bazarov.

'How do you do, Yevgeny Vassilyitch?' began the little old man, and he
smiled with delight, so that his whole face was all at once covered
with wrinkles.

'What have you come for? They sent for me, eh?'

'Upon my word, sir, how could we?' mumbled Timofeitch. (He remembered
the strict injunctions he had received from his master on starting.)
'We were sent to the town on business, and we'd heard news of your
honour, so here we turned off on our way, that's to say--to have a look
at your honour ... as if we could think of disturbing you!'

'Come, don't tell lies!' Bazarov cut him short. 'Is this the road to
the town, do you mean to tell me?' Timofeitch hesitated