s to judge what
more is to be expected of him."

"He's a drunkard and a worthless fellow," Shatov muttered with apparent
reluctance.

"Is he always so stupid?"

"No, he's not stupid at all when he's not drunk."

"I used to know a general who wrote verses exactly like that," I
observed, laughing.

"One can see from the letter that he is clever enough for his own
purposes," Mavriky Nikolaevitch, who had till then been silent, put in
unexpectedly.

"He lives with some sister?" Liza queried.

"Yes, with his sister."

"They say he tyrannises over her, is that true?"

Shatov looked at Liza again, scowled, and muttering, "What business is
it of mine?" moved towards the door.

"Ah, stay!" cried Liza, in a flutter. "Where are you going? We have so
much still to talk over...."

"What is there to talk over? I'll let you know to-morrow."

"Why, the most important thing of all--the printing-press! Do believe me
that I am not in jest, that I really want to work in good earnest!" Liza
assured him in growing agitation. "If we decide to publish it, where is
it to be printed? You know it's a most important question, for we shan't
go to Moscow for it, and the printing-press here is out of the
question for such a publication. I made up my mind long ago to set up
a printing-press of my own, in your name perhaps--and I know maman will
allow it so long as it is in your name...."

"How do you know that I could be a printer?" Shatov asked sullenly.

"Why, Pyotr Stepanovitch told me of you in Switzerland, and referred
me to you as one who knows the business and able to set up a
printing-press. He even meant to give me a note to you from himself, but
I forgot it."

Shatov's face changed, as I recollect now. He stood for a few seconds
longer, then went out of the room.

Liza was angry.

"Does he always go out like that?" she asked, turning to me.

I was just shrugging my shoulders when Shatov suddenly came back, went
straight up to the table and put down the roll of papers he had taken.

"I'm not going to be your helper, I haven't the time...."

"Why? Why? I think you are angry!" Liza asked him in a grieved and
imploring voice.

The sound of her voice seemed to strike him; for some moments he looked
at her intently, as though trying to penetrate to her very soul.

"No matter," he muttered, softly, "I don't want to...."

And he went away altogether.

Liza was completely overwhelmed, quite disproportionately in fact,