ot listen to him, and ran off the terrace. Nikolai
Petrovitch looked after him, and sank into his chair overcome by
confusion. His heart began to throb. Did he at that moment realise the
inevitable strangeness of the future relations between him and his son?
Was he conscious that Arkady would perhaps have shown him more respect
if he had never touched on this subject at all? Did he reproach himself
for weakness?--it is hard to say; all these feelings were within him,
but in the state of sensations--and vague sensations--while the flush
did not leave his face, and his heart throbbed.

There was the sound of hurrying footsteps, and Arkady came on to the
terrace. 'We have made friends, dad!' he cried, with an expression of a
kind of affectionate and good-natured triumph on his face. 'Fedosya
Nikolaevna is not quite well to-day really, and she will come a little
later. But why didn't you tell me I had a brother? I should have kissed
him last night, as I have kissed him just now.'

Nikolai Petrovitch tried to articulate something, tried to get up and
open his arms. Arkady flung himself on his neck.

'What's this? embracing again?' sounded the voice of Pavel Petrovitch
behind them.

Father and son were equally rejoiced at his appearance at that instant;
there are positions, genuinely affecting, from which one longs to
escape as soon as possible.

'Why should you be surprised at that?' said Nikolai Petrovitch gaily.
'Think what ages I have been waiting for Arkasha. I've not had time to
get a good look at him since yesterday.'

'I'm not at all surprised,' observed Pavel Petrovitch; 'I feel not
indisposed to be embracing him myself.'

Arkady went up to his uncle, and again felt his cheeks caressed by his
perfumed moustache. Pavel Petrovitch sat down to the table. He wore an
elegant morning suit in the English style, and a gay little fez on his
head. This fez and the carelessly tied little cravat carried a
suggestion of the freedom of country life, but the stiff collars of his
shirt--not white, it is true, but striped, as is correct in morning
dress--stood up as inexorably as ever against his well-shaved chin.

'Where's your new friend?' he asked Arkady.

'He's not in the house; he usually gets up early and goes off
somewhere. The great thing is, we mustn't pay any attention to him; he
doesn't like ceremony.'

'Yes, that's obvious.' Pavel Petrovitch began deliberately spreading
butter on his bread. 'Is he going to sta