RUDIN
Lipin, Alexandra Pavlovna, whom you saw yesterday; she is very sweet—but that is all. Her brother is also a capital fellow—un parfait honnête homme. The Prince Garin you know. Those are all. There are two or three neighbours besides, but they are really good for nothing. They either give themselves airs or are unsociable, or else quite unsuitably free and easy. The ladies, as you know, I see nothing of. There is one other of our neighbours said to be a very cultivated, even a learned, man, but a dreadfully queer creature, a whimsical character. Alexandrine, knows him, and I fancy is not indifferent to him. . . . Come, you ought to talk to her, Dmitri Nikolaitch; she’s a sweet creature. She only wants developing.’
‘I liked her very much,’ remarked Rudin.
‘A perfect child, Dmitri Nikolaitch, an absolute baby. She has been married, mais c’est tout comme. . . . If I were a man, I should only fall in love with women like that.’
‘Really?’
‘Certainly. Such women are at least fresh, and freshness cannot be put on.’
‘And can everything else?’ Rudin asked,
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