Panshine made a brief pause. From whatever point he started a conversation, he generally ended by speaking about himself, and then his words seemed almost to escape from him involuntarily, so softly and pleasantly did he speak, and with such an air of sincerity. "It is so, even in your house," he continued. "Your mamma, it is true, is most kind to me. She is so good. You--but no, I don't know what you think of me. But decidedly your aunt cannot abide me. I have vexed her by some thoughtless, stupid speech. It is true that she does not like me, is it not?" "Yes," replied Liza, after a moment's hesitation. "You do not please her." Panshine let his fingers run rapidly over the keys; a scarcely perceptible smile glided over his lips. "Well, but you," he continued, "do you also think me an egotist?". "I know so little about you," replied Liza; "but I should not call you an egotist. On the contrary, I ought to feel grateful to you--" "I know, I know what you are going to say," interrupted Panshine, again running his fingers over the keys, "for the music, for the books, which I bring you, for the bad drawings with which I ornament your album, and so on, and so on. I may do all that, and yet be an egotist. I venture to think that I do not bore you, and that you do not think me a bad man; but yet you suppose that I--how shall I say it?--for the sake of an epigram would not spare my friend, my father him self." "You are absent and forgetful, like all men of the world," said Liza, "that is all." Panshine slightly frowned. "Listen," he said; "don't let's talk any more about me; let us begin our sonata. Only there is one thing I will ask of you," he added, as he smoothed the sheets which lay on the music-desk with his hand; "think of me what you will, call me egotist even, I don't object to that; but don't call me a man of the world, that name is insufferable. _Anch'io sono pittore_. I too am an artist, though but a poor one, and that--namely, that I am a poor artist--I am going to prove to you on the spot. Let us begin." "Very good, let us begin," said Liza. The first adagio went off with tolerable success, although Panshine made several mistakes. What he had written himself, and what he had learnt by heart, he played very well, but he could not play at sight correctly. Accordingly the second part of the sonata--tolerably quick allegro--would not do at all. At the twentieth bar Panshine, who was a couple of bars behind, gave in, and pushed back his chair with a laugh. "No!" he exclaimed, "I cannot play to-day. It is fortunate that Lemm cannot hear us; he would have had a fit." Liza stood up, shut the piano, and then turned to Panshine. "What shall we do then?" she asked.