'How do you do, Yevgeny Vassilyitch?' began the little old man, and he smiled with delight, so that his whole face was all at once covered with wrinkles.
'What have you come for? They sent for me, eh?'
'Upon my word, sir, how could we?' mumbled Timofeitch. (He remembered the strict injunctions he had received from his master on starting.) 'We were sent to the town on business, and we'd heard news of your honour, so here we turned off on our way, that's to say—to have a look at your honour ... as if we could think of disturbing you!'
'Come, don't tell lies!' Bazarov cut him short. 'Is this the road to the town, do you mean to tell me?' Timofeitch hesitated, and made no answer. 'Is my father well?'
'Thank God, yes.'
'And my mother?'
'Anna Vlasyevna too, glory be to God.'
'They are expecting me, I suppose?'
The little old man held his tiny head on one side.
'Ah, Yevgeny Vassilyitch, it makes one's heart ache to see them; it does really.'
'Come, all right, all right! shut up! Tell them I'm coming soon.'
'Yes, sir,' answered Timofeitch, with a sigh.
