"Always I have been frank with you, as you know; wherefore pray believe me when I say--I call God to witness that it is true--that your surmises are mistaken." "Truly a new song!" remarked Bazarov _sotto voce._ "But do not disturb yourself: it is all one to me. Certainly, a Romanticist would have said: 'Our roads are beginning to diverge'; but I say no more than that clearly we have no further use for one another." "Oh, Evgenii!" "Dear lad, it is no misfortune. At all times is something in the world finding out that it has no use for something else. So we must say good-bye. Ever since I arrived in this place I have been feeling as uncomfortable as a Governor's lady when she hears a work of Gogol's read aloud. In fact, I did not order my horses to be unharnessed." "But you cannot act like this!" "Why not?" "Because, apart from my own feelings, such a speedy departure would be the height of rudeness to Anna Sergievna. I know that she would like to see you." "No, she would not." "I am positive that she would. Why pretend like this? Are you going to say that it is not for her sake alone that you are here?" "You have grounds for that surmise, yet I say that you are wrong." But Arkady proved to be right, for Anna Sergievna really desired to see Bazarov, and, through the butler, sent him word to that effect. After tidying his costume, therefore, and tucking his new great-coat under his arm (in readiness to depart as soon as the interview should be concluded), he went downstairs, and was received, not in the room where he had unexpectedly disclosed his passion, but in the drawing-room. Anna Sergievna's manner, as she offered him the tips of her fingers, was pleasant enough, yet her face betrayed involuntary tension. "To begin with," Bazarov hastened to say, "allow me to reassure you. You see before you a corpse which has long returned to its senses, and is also not destitute of hope that others have forgotten its folly. I am unlikely to see you again for an extended period, but, though (as you know) I am not given to sentiment, I feel that I should like to bear away with me the thought that my image still fills your mind with aversion." She caught at her breath like a person who has just arrived at the summit of a lofty mountain. Then her face lightened into a smile, and, offering Bazarov her hand a second time, she allowed it to respond to the pressure of his. "When sorrow is asleep, do not wake it," she said. "And the less so since my conscience convicts me, if not of coquetry on that occasion, at all events of something else. One word more. Let us be friends again. For it was all a dream, was it not? And who remembers dreams?" "Who indeed? And love--well, love is a mere empirical sentiment." "I am glad to hear you say so."