IV.

Panshine struck the first chords of the sonata, in which he played the bass, loudly and with decision, but Liza did not begin her part.  He stopped and looked at her—­Liza’s eyes, which were looking straight at him, expressed dissatisfaction; her lips did not smile, all her countenance was severe, almost sad.

“What is the matter?” he asked.

“Why have you not kept your word?” she said.  “I showed you Christopher Fedorovich’s cantata only on condition that you would not speak to him about it.”

“I was wrong, Lizaveta Mikhailovna—­I spoke without thinking.”

“You have wounded him and me too.  In future he will distrust me as well as others.”

“What could I do, Lizaveta Mikhailovna?  From my earliest youth I have never been able to see a German without feeling tempted to tease him.”

“What are you saying, Vladimir Nikolaevich?  This German is a poor, lonely, broken man; and you feel no pity for him! you feel tempted to tease him!”

Panshine seemed a little disconcerted.

“You are right, Lizaveta Mikhailovna,” he said “The fault is entirely due to my perpetual thoughtlessness.  No, do not contradict me.  I know myself well.  My thoughtlessness has done me no slight harm.  It makes people suppose that I am an egotist.”

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.”