'No; it's better without formalities.'
'I think so myself. I presume it is also out of place to go into the real grounds of our difference. We cannot endure one another. What more is necessary?'
'What more, indeed?' repeated Bazarov ironically.
'As regards the conditions of the meeting itself, seeing that we shall have no seconds—for where could we get them?'
'Exactly so; where could we get them?'
'Then I have the honour to lay the following proposition before you: The combat to take place early to-morrow, at six, let us say, behind the copse, with pistols, at a distance of ten paces....'
'At ten paces? that will do; we hate one another at that distance.'
'We might have it eight,' remarked Pavel Petrovitch.
'We might.'
'To fire twice; and, to be ready for any result, let each put a letter in his pocket, in which he accuses himself of his end.'
'Now, that I don't approve of at all,' observed Bazarov. 'There's a slight flavour of the French novel about it, something not very plausible.'
'Perhaps. You will agree, however, that it
