RUDIN
‘You know,’ continued Sergei Pavlitch after a long pause, ‘that not such things. . . . But why am I saying this? you know everything, of course.’
At that instant a bell rang in the house.
‘Ah! la cloche du diner!’ cried Mlle. Boncourt, ‘rentrons.’
‘Quel dommage,’ thought the old French lady to herself as she mounted the balcony steps behind Volintsev and Natalya, ‘quel dommage que ce charmant garçon ait si peu de ressources dans la conversation,’ which may be translated, ‘you are a good fellow, my dear boy, but it's a pity you have not more brains.’
The baron did not arrive to dinner. They waited half-an-hour for him. Conversation flagged at the table. Sergeï Pavlitch did nothing but gaze at Natalya, near whom he was sitting, and zealously filled up her glass with water. Pandalevsky tried in vain to entertain his neighbour, Alexandra Pavlovna; he was bubbling over with sweetness, but she hardly refrained from yawning.
Bassistoff was rolling up pellets of bread and thinking of nothing at all; even Pigasov was
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