"That would be quite pleasant," he agrees. And then, for a few moments, that's the end of the conversation as he seems intensely engrossed in a bit of snow splashed up against the rough bark of a tree. Then, suddenly, after a disconcerting length of time - neither particularly long nor particularly short - he says, "I myself play. The violin." And then, with a tinge of irony that might have been classist mockery or might simply have been his usual wryness, he amends, "The fiddle."