For about a quarter of an hour my discourse flowed on. Tarhov was still silent. I began to be disconcerted by this silence. I glanced at him from time to time, not so much to satisfy myself as to the impression my words were making on him, as to find out why he neither objected nor agreed, but sat like a deaf mute. At last I fancied that there was ... yes, there certainly was a change in his face. It began to show signs of uneasiness, agitation, painful agitation.... Yet, strange to say, the eager, bright, laughing something, which had struck me at my first glance at Tarhov, still did not leave that agitated, that troubled face! I could not make up my mind whether or no to congratulate myself on the success of my sermon, when Tarhov suddenly got up, and pressing both my hands, said, speaking very quickly, ‘Thank you, thank you. You’re right, of course, ... though, on the other side, one might observe ... What is your Baburin you make so much of, after all? An honest fool--and nothing more! You call him a republican--and he’s simply a fool! Oo! That’s what he is! All his republicanism simply means that he can never get on anywhere!’ ‘Ah! so that’s your idea! A fool! can never get on!--but let me tell you,’ I pursued, with sudden heat, ‘let me tell you, my dear Vladimir Nikolaitch, that in these days to get on nowhere is a sign of a fine, a noble nature! None but worthless people--bad people--get on anywhere and accommodate themselves to everything. You say Baburin is an honest fool! Why, is it better, then, to your mind, to be dishonest and clever?’ ‘You distort my words!’ cried Tarhov. ‘I only wanted to explain how I understand that person. Do you think he’s such a rare specimen? Not a bit of it! I’ve met other people like him in my time. A man sits with an air of importance, silent, obstinate, angular.... O-ho-ho! say you. It shows that there’s a great deal in him! But there’s nothing in him, not one idea in his head--nothing but a sense of his own dignity.’ ‘Even if there is nothing else, that’s an honourable thing,’ I broke in. ‘But let me ask where you have managed to study him like this? You don’t know him, do you? Or are you describing him ... from what Musa tells you?’ Tarhov shrugged his shoulders. ‘Musa and I ... have other things to talk of. I tell you what,’ he added, his whole body quivering with impatience,--‘I tell you what: if Baburin has such a noble and honest nature, how is it he doesn’t see that Musa is not a fit match for him? It’s one of two things: either he knows that what he’s doing to her is something of the nature of an outrage, all in the name of gratitude ... and if so, what about his honesty?--or he doesn’t realise it ... and in that case, what can one call him but a fool?’ I was about to reply, but Tarhov again clutched my hands, and again began talking in a hurried voice. ‘Though ... of course ... I confess you are right, a thousand times right.... You are a true friend ... but now leave me alone, please.’