maid, both as regards the lunch and the champagne.
'What do you think about it?' she added, turning to Bazarov. 'I'm persuaded you share my opinion.'
'Well, no,' retorted Bazarov; 'a piece of meat's better than a piece of bread even from the chemical point of view.'
'You are studying chemistry? That is my passion. I've even invented a new sort of composition myself.'
'A composition? You?'
'Yes. And do you know for what purpose? To make dolls' heads so that they shouldn't break. I'm practical, too, yon see. But everything's not quite ready yet. I've still to read Liebig. By the way, have you read Kislyakov's article on Female Labour, in the Moscow Gazette? Read it please. You're interested in the woman question, I suppose? And in the schools too? What does your friend do? What is his name?'
Madame Kukshin shed her questions one after another with affected negligence, not waiting for an answer; spoilt children talk so to their nurses.
'My name's Arkady Nikolaitch Kirsanov,' said Arkady, 'and I'm doing nothing.'
Evdoksya giggled. 'How charming! What,
