air of indifference; but it was perfectly evident to Rudin that she
was laying herself out to please him, even to flatter him. It was not
for nothing that she had arranged this morning interview, and had
dressed so simply yet elegantly _a la Madame Recamier_! But Darya
Mihailovna soon left off questioning him. She began to tell him about
herself, her youth, and the people she had known. Rudin gave a
sympathetic attention to her lucubrations, though--a curious
fact--whatever personage Darya Mihailovna might be talking about, she
always stood in the foreground, she alone, and the personage seemed to
be effaced, to slink away in the background, and to disappear. But to
make up for that, Rudin learnt in full detail precisely what Darya
Mihailovna had said to a certain distinguished statesman, and what
influence she had had on such and such a celebrated poet. To judge
from Darya Mihailovna's accounts, one might fancy that all the
distinguished men of the last five-and-twenty years had dreamt of
nothing but how they could make her acquaintance, and gain her good
opinion. She spoke of them simply, without particular enthusiasm or
admiration, as though they were her daily associates, calling some of
them queer fellows. As she talked of them, like a rich setting round a
worthless stone, their names ranged themselves in a brilliant circlet
round the principal name--around Darya Mihailovna.

Rudin listened, smoking a cigarette, and said little. He could speak
well and liked speaking; carrying on a conversation was not in his
line, though he was also a good listener. All men--if only they had
not been intimidated by him to begin with--opened their hearts with
confidence in his presence; he followed the thread of another man's
narrative so readily and sympathetically. He had a great deal of
good-nature--that special good-nature of which men are full, who are
accustomed to feel themselves superior to others. In arguments he