"I know, I know, what you mean to say,"--Panshin interrupted her, and again ran his fingers over the keys:--"for the music, for the books which I bring you, for the bad drawings with which I decorate your album, and so forth and so on. I can do all that--and still be an egoist. I venture to think, that you are not bored in my company, and that you do not regard me as a bad man, but still you assume, that I--how in the world shall I express it?--would not spare my own father or friend for the sake of a jest." "You are heedless and forgetful, like all worldly people,"--said Liza:--"that is all." Panshin frowned slightly. "Listen," he said:--"let us not talk any more about me; let us play our sonata. One thing only I will ask of you,"--he said, as with his hand he smoothed out the leaves of the bound volume which stood on the music-rack:--"think what you will of me, call me an egoist even,--so be it! but do not call me a worldly man: that appellation is intolerable to me.... _Anch'io son pittore._ I also am an artist,--and I will immediately prove it to you in action. Let us begin." "We will begin, if you please,"--said Liza. The first adagio went quite successfully, although Panshin made more than one mistake. He played his own compositions and those which he had practised very prettily, but he read music badly. On the other hand, the second part of the sonata--a rather brisk allegro--did not go at all: at the twentieth measure, Panshin, who had got two measures behind, could hold out no longer, and pushed back his chair with a laugh. "No!"--he exclaimed:--"I cannot play to-day; it is well that Lemm does not hear us: he would fall down in a swoon." Liza rose, shut the piano, and turned to Panshin. "What shall we do now?"--she asked. "I recognise you in that question! You cannot possibly sit with folded hands. Come, if you like, let us draw, before it has grown completely dark. Perhaps the other muse,--the muse of drawing ... what's her name? I've forgotten ... will be more gracious to me. Where is your album? Do you remember?--my landscape there is not finished." Liza went into the next room for her album, and Panshin, when he was left alone, pulled a batiste handkerchief from his pocket, polished his nails, and gazed somewhat askance at his hands. They were very handsome and white; on the thumb of the left hand he wore a spiral gold ring. Liza returned; Panshin seated himself near the window, and opened the album. "Aha!"--he exclaimed:--"I see that you have begun to copy my landscape--and that is fine. Very good! Only here--give me a pencil--the shadows are not put on thickly enough.... Look." And Panshin, with a bold sweep, prolonged several long strokes. He constantly drew one and the same landscape: in the foreground were large, dishevelled trees, in the distance, a meadow, and saw-toothed mountains on the horizon. Liza looked over his shoulder at his work.