'Have you such a high opinion of the Germans?' said Pavel Petrovitch, with exaggerated courtesy. He was beginning to feel a secret irritation. His aristocratic nature was revolted by Bazarov's absolute nonchalance. This surgeon's son was not only not overawed, he even gave abrupt and indifferent answers, and in the tone of his voice there was something churlish, almost insolent.
'The scientific men there are a clever lot.'
'Ah, ah. To be sure, of Russian scientific men you have not such a flattering opinion, I dare say?'
'That is very likely.'
'That's very praiseworthy self-abnegation,' Pavel Petrovitch declared, drawing himself up, and throwing his head back. 'But how is this? Arkady Nikolaitch was telling us just now that you accept no authorities? Don't you believe in them?'
'And how am I accepting them? And what am I to believe in? They tell me the truth, I agree, that's all.'
'And do all Germans tell the truth?' said Pavel Petrovitch, and his face assumed an expression as unsympathetic, as remote, as if he had withdrawn to some cloudy height.
'Not all,' replied Bazarov, with a short yawn.
