head; near her lay a whole heap of red and white roses still wet with dew. He said good morning to her.
'Ah! Yevgeny Vassilyitch!' she said, and lifted the edge of her kerchief a little to look at him, in doing which her arm was left bare to the elbow.
'What are you doing here?' said Bazarov, sitting down beside her. 'Are you making a nosegay?'
'Yes, for the table at lunch. Nikolai Petrovitch likes it.'
'But it's a long while yet to lunch time. What a heap of flowers!'
'I gathered them now, for it will be hot then, and one can't go out. One can only just breathe now. I feel quite weak with the heat. I'm really afraid whether I'm not going to be ill.'
'What an idea! Let me feel your pulse.' Bazarov took her hand, felt for the evenly-beating pulse, but did not even begin to count its throbs. 'You'll live a hundred years!' he said, dropping her hand.
'Ah, God forbid!' she cried.
'Why? Don't you want a long life?'
'Well, but a hundred years! There was an old woman near us eighty-five years old—and what a martyr she was! Dirty and deaf and
