ark. Perhaps another Muse--the Muse of
painting--what's her name? I've forgotten--will be more propitious to
me. Where is your album? I remember the landscape I was drawing in it
was not finished."

Liza went into another room for the album, and Panshine, finding
himself alone, took a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket, rubbed
his nails and looked sideways at his hands. They were very white and
well shaped; on the second finger of the left hand he wore a spiral
gold ring.

Liza returned; Panshine seated himself by the window and opened the
album.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "I see you have begun to copy my landscape--and
capitally--very good indeed--only--just give me the pencil--the
shadows are not laid in black enough. Look here."

And Panshine added some long strokes with a vigorous touch. He always
drew the same landscape--large dishevelled trees in the foreground, in
the middle distance a plain, and on the horizon an indented chain of
hills. Liza looked over his shoulder at his work.

"In drawing, as also in life in general," said Panshine, turning his
head now to the right, now to the left, "lightness and daring--those
are the first requisites."

At this moment Lemm entered the room, and after bowing gravely, was
about to retire; but Panshine flung the album and pencil aside, and
prevented him from leaving the room.

"Where are you going, dear Christoph Fedorovich? Won't you stay and
take tea?"

"I am going home," said Lemm, in a surly voice; "my head aches."

"What nonsense! do remain. We will have a talk about Shakspeare."

"My head aches," repeated the old man.

"We tried to play Beethoven's sonata without you," continued Panshine,
caressingly throwing his arm over the old man's shoulder and smiling
sweetly; "but we didn't succeed in bringing it to a harmonious
conclusion. Just imagine, I couldn't play two consecutive notes
right."

"You had better have played your romance over again," replied Lemm;
then, escaping from Panshine's hold he went out of the room.

Liza ran after him, and caught him on the steps.

"Christopher Fedorovich, I want to speak to you," she said in German,
as led him across the short green grass to the gate. "I have done you
a wrong--forgive me."

Lemm made no reply.

"I showed your cantata to Vladimir Nikolaevich; I was sure he would
appreciate it, and, indeed, he was exceedingly pleased with it."

Lemm stopped still.

"It's no matter," he said in Russian, and then a