oon made himself thoroughly at home in it. As to Maria
Dmitrievna herself, she thought there was nobody in the world to be
compared with him.

Panshine bowed in an engaging manner to all the occupants of the room;
shook hands with Maria Dmitrievna and Elizaveta Mikhailovna, lightly
tapped Gedeonovsky on the shoulder, and, turning on his heels, took
Lenochka's head between his hands and kissed her on the forehead.

"Are not you afraid to ride such a vicious horse?" asked Maria
Dmitrievna.

"I beg your pardon, it is perfectly quiet. No, but I will tell you
what I really am afraid of. I am afraid of playing at preference with
Sergius Petrovich. Yesterday, at the Bielenitsines', he won all the
money I had with me."

Gedeonovsky laughed a thin and cringing laugh; he wanted to gain the
good graces of the brilliant young official from St. Petersburg, the
governor's favorite. In his conversations with Maria Dmitrievna, he
frequently spoke of Panshine's remarkable faculties. "Why, really now,
how can one help praising him?" he used to reason. "The young man is
a success in the highest circles of society, and at the same time he
does his work in the most perfect manner, and he isn't the least bit
proud." And indeed, even at St. Petersburg, Panshine was looked upon
as an efficient public servant; the work "burnt under his hands;" he
spoke of it jestingly, as a man of the world should, who does not
attach any special importance to his employment; but he was a "doer."
Heads of departments like such subordinates; he himself never doubted
that in time, supposing he really wished it, he would be a Minister.

"You are so good as to say that I won your money," said Gedeonovsky;
"but who won fifteen roubles from me last week? And besides--"

"Ah, rogue, rogue!" interrupted Panshine, in a pleasant tone, but with
an air of indifference bordering on contempt, and then, without paying
him any further attention, he accosted Liza.

"I cannot get the overture to Oberon here," he began. "Madame
Bielenitsine boasted that she had a complete collection of classical
music; but in reality she has nothing but polkas and waltzes. However,
I have already written to Moscow, and you shall have the overture in a
week."

"By the way," he continued, "I wrote a new romance yesterday; the
words are mine as well as the music. Would you like me to sing it to
you? Madame Bielenitsine thought it very pretty, but her judgment is
not worth much. I want to k