only devotion and tenderness; in them was to be seen sorrow also, mingled with awe and curiosity; there was to be seen too a sort of humble reproachfulness.
Bazarov, however, was not in a humour to analyse the exact expression of his mother's eyes; he seldom turned to her, and then only with some short question. Once he asked her for her hand 'for luck'; she gently laid her soft, little hand on his rough, broad palm.
'Well,' she asked, after waiting a little, 'has it been any use?'
'Worse luck than ever,' he answered, with a careless laugh.
'He plays too rashly,' pronounced Father Alexey, as it were compassionately, and he stroked his beard.
'Napoleon's rule, good Father, Napoleon's rule,' put in Vassily Ivanovitch, leading an ace.
'It brought him to St. Helena, though,' observed Father Alexey, as he trumped the ace.
'Wouldn't you like some currant tea, Enyusha?' inquired Arina Vlasyevna.
Bazarov merely shrugged his shoulders.
'No!' he said to Arkady the next day. I'm off from here to-morrow. I'm bored; I want to work, but I can't work here. I will come to your place again; I've left all my apparatus there too. In your house one can at any rate
