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hand, and the melody flowed with honey sweetness through the air.
'What's that?' cried Bazarov in amazement.
'It's my father.'
'Your father plays the violoncello?'
'Yes.'
'And how old is your father?'
'Forty-four.'
Bazarov suddenly burst into a roar of laughter.
'What are you laughing at?'
'Upon my word, a man of forty-four, a paterfamilias in this out-of-the-way district, playing on the violoncello!'
Bazarov went on laughing; but much as he revered his master, this time Arkady did not even smile.
