"I do not know. Somehow your gaze seems to draw from me everything that I would rather people did not learn—you least of all."
"Why so? You are a friend of Schtoltz's, and he is a friend of mine, and therefore——"
"And therefore there is no reason why you should know as much about me as he does," concluded Oblomov.
"No, there is no reason. But at least there is a possibility that I may do so."
"Yes—thanks to his talkativeness! Indeed a poor service!"
"Have you, then, any secrets to conceal—or even crimes?" With a little laugh she edged away from him.
"Perhaps," he said with a sigh.
"Yes, to put on odd socks is a grave crime," she remarked with demure timidity.
Oblomov seized his hat.
"I will not stand this!" he cried. "Yet you want me to feel at home here! As for Schtoltz, I detest him! He told you about the socks, I suppose?"
"Nay, nay," she said. "Pardon me this once, and I will try to look at you in quite a different way. As a matter of fact, 'tis you who are looking at me in rather an odd fashion."
