mon-coloured dress-coat with brass buttons, and a pink
neckerchief. He smirked, went up to kiss Arkady's hand, and bowing to
the guest retreated to the door, and put his hands behind him.

'Here he is, Prokofitch,' began Nikolai Petrovitch; 'he's come back to
us at last.... Well, how do you think him looking?'

'As well as could be,' said the old man, and was grinning again, but he
quickly knitted his bushy brows. 'You wish supper to be served?' he
said impressively.

'Yes, yes, please. But won't you like to go to your room first, Yevgeny
Vassilyitch?'

'No, thanks; I don't care about it. Only give orders for my little box
to be taken there, and this garment, too,' he added, taking off his
frieze overcoat.

'Certainly. Prokofitch, take the gentleman's coat.' (Prokofitch, with
an air of perplexity, picked up Bazarov's 'garment' in both hands, and
holding it high above his head, retreated on tiptoe.) 'And you, Arkady,
are you going to your room for a minute?'

'Yes, I must wash,' answered Arkady, and was just moving towards the
door, but at that instant there came into the drawing-room a man of
medium height, dressed in a dark English suit, a fashionable low
cravat, and kid shoes, Pavel Petrovitch Kirsanov. He looked about
forty-five: his close-cropped, grey hair shone with a dark lustre, like
new silver; his face, yellow but free from wrinkles, was exceptionally
regular and pure in line, as though carved by a light and delicate
chisel, and showed traces of remarkable beauty; specially fine were his
clear, black, almond-shaped eyes. The whole person of Arkady's uncle,
with its aristocratic elegance, had preserved the gracefulness of youth
and that air of striving upwards, away from earth, which for the most
part is lost after the twenties are past.

Pavel Petrovitch took out of his trouser pocket his exquisite hand with
its long tapering pink nails, a hand which seemed still more exquisite
from the snowy whiteness of the cuff, buttoned with a single, big opal,
and gave it to his nephew. After a preliminary handshake in the
European style, he kissed him thrice after the Russian fashion, that is
to say, he touched his cheek three times with his perfumed moustaches,
and said, 'Welcome.'

Nikolai Petrovitch presented him to Bazarov; Pavel Petrovitch greeted
him with a slight inclination of his supple figure, and a slight smile,
but he did not give him his hand, and even put it back into his pocket.

'I had begun to