. . . but he has no character . . . and he will remain all his life
half a savant, half a man of the world, that is to say, a dilettante,
that is to say, to speak plainly,--neither one thing nor the other.
. . . But it's a pity!'

'That was my own idea,' observed Darya Mihailovna. 'I read his
article. . . . _Entre nous . . . cela a assez peu de fond!_'

'Who else have you here?' asked Rudin, after a pause.

Darya Mihailovna knocked off the ash of her cigarette with her little
finger.

'Oh, there is hardly any one else. Madame Lipin, Alexandra Pavlovna,
whom you saw yesterday; she is very sweet--but that is all. Her
brother is also a capital fellow--_un parfait honnete homme_. The
Prince Garin you know. Those are all. There are two or three
neighbours besides, but they are really good for nothing. They either
give themselves airs or are unsociable, or else quite unsuitably free
and easy. The ladies, as you know, I see nothing of. There is one
other of our neighbours said to be a very cultivated, even a learned,
man, but a dreadfully queer creature, a whimsical character.
_Alexandrine_, knows him, and I fancy is not indifferent to him. . . .
Come, you ought to talk to her, Dmitri Nikolaitch; she's a sweet
creature. She only wants developing.'

'I liked her very much,' remarked Rudin.

'A perfect child, Dmitri Nikolaitch, an absolute baby. She has been
married, _mais c'est tout comme_. . . . If I were a man, I should only