RUDIN
forth—all that’s natural enough. But what’s wrong is, that he is as cold as ice.’
‘He cold! that fiery soul cold!’ interrupted Alexandra Pavlovna.
‘Yes, cold as ice, and he knows it, and pretends to be fiery. What’s worse,’ pursued Lezhnyov, gradually growing warm, ‘he is playing a dangerous game—not dangerous for him, of course; he does not risk a farthing, not a straw on it—but others stake their soul.’
‘Whom and what are you talking of? I don’t understand you,’ said Alexandra Pavlovna.
‘What’s bad, he isn’t honest. He’s a clever man, certainly; he ought to know the value of his own words, and he brings them out as if they were worth something to him. I don’t dispute that he’s a fine speaker, but not in the Russian style. And indeed, after all, fine speaking is pardonable in a boy, but at his years it is disgraceful to take pleasure in the sound of his own voice, and to show off!’
‘I think, Mihailo Mihailitch, it’s all the same for those who hear him, whether he is showing off or not.’
‘Excuse me, Alexandra Pavlovna, it is not all
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