‘Come and see us, my dear boy,’ he faltered at last; ‘you won’t be too proud to visit our humble nest? You’re a student, I see ...’ ‘On the contrary, I shall be delighted, really.’ ‘Are you independent now?’ ‘Perfectly independent.’ ‘That’s capital! How pleased Paramon Semyonitch will be! To-day he’ll be home earlier than usual, and madame lets her, too, off for Saturdays. But, stop, excuse me, I am quite forgetting myself. Of course, you don’t know our niece!’ I hastened to slip in that I had not yet had the pleasure. ‘Of course, of course! How could you know her! Musotchka ... Take note, my dear sir, this girl’s name is Musa--and it’s not a nickname, but her real name ... Isn’t that a predestination? Musotchka, I want to introduce you to Mr. ... Mr. ...’ ‘B.,’ I prompted. ‘B.,’ he repeated. ‘Musotchka, listen! You see before you the most excellent, most delightful of young men. Fate threw us together when he was still in years of boyhood! I beg you to look on him as a friend!’ I swung off a low bow. Musa, red as a poppy, flashed a look on me from under her eyelids, and dropped them immediately. ‘Ah!’ thought I, ‘you ‘re one of those who in difficult moments don’t turn pale, but red; that must be made a note of.’ ‘You must be indulgent, she’s not a fine lady,’ observed Punin, and he went out of the shop into the street; Musa and I followed him. * * * * * The house in which Punin lodged was a considerable distance from the Gostinny Dvor, being, in fact, in Sadovoy Street. On the way my former preceptor in poetry had time to communicate a good many details of his mode of existence. Since the time of our parting, both he and Baburin had been tossed about holy Russia pretty thoroughly, and had not long--only a year and a half before--found a permanent home in Moscow. Baburin had succeeded in becoming head-clerk in the office of a rich merchant and manufacturer. ‘Not a lucrative berth,’ Punin observed with a sigh,--‘a lot of work, and not much profit ... but what’s one to do? One must be thankful to get that! I, too, am trying to earn something by copying and lessons; only my efforts have so far not been crowned with success. My writing, you perhaps recollect, is old-fashioned, not in accordance with the tastes of the day; and as regards lessons--what has been a great obstacle is the absence of befitting attire; moreover, I greatly fear that in the matter of instruction--in the subject of Russian literature--I am also not in harmony with the tastes of the day; and so it comes about that I am turned away.’ (Punin laughed his sleepy, subdued laugh. He had retained his old, somewhat high-flown manner of speech, and his old weakness for falling into rhyme.) ‘All run after novelties, nothing but innovations! I dare say you, too, do not honour the old divinities, and fall down before new idols?’ ‘And you, Nikander Vavilitch, do you really still esteem Heraskov?’