e I was a little boy
I could never see a German without wanting to teaze him."

"How can you say that, Vladimir Nikolaitch? This German is poor, lonely,
and broken-down--have you no pity for him? Can you wish to teaze him?"

Panshin was a little taken aback.

"You are right, Lisaveta Mihalovna," he declared. "It's my everlasting
thoughtlessness that's to blame. No, don't contradict me; I know myself.
So much harm has come to me from my want of thought. It's owing to that
failing that I am thought to be an egoist."

Panshin paused. With whatever subject he began a conversation, he
generally ended by talking of himself, and the subject was changed by
him so easily, so smoothly and genially, that it seemed unconscious.

"In your own household, for instance," he went on, "your mother
certainly wishes me well, she is so kind; you--well, I don't know your
opinion of me; but on the other hand your aunt simply can't bear me. I
must have offended her too by some thoughtless, stupid speech. You know
I'm not a favourite of hers, am I?"

"No," Lisa admitted with some reluctance, "she doesn't like you."

Panshin ran his fingers quickly over the keys, and a scarcely
perceptible smile glided over his lips.

"Well, and you?" he said, "do you too think me an egoist?"

"I know you very little," replied Lisa, "but I don't consider you an
egoist; on the contrary, I can't help feeling grateful to you."

"I know, I know what you mean to say," Panshin interrupted, and again he
ran his fingers over the keys: "for the music and the books I bring you,
for the wretched sketches with which I adorn your album, and so forth.
I might do all that--and be an egoist all the same. I venture to think
that you don't find me a bore, and don't think me a bad fellow, but
still you suppose that I--what's the saying?--would sacrifice friend or
father for the sake of a witticism."

"You are careless and forgetful, like all men of the world," observed
Lisa, "that is all."

Panshin frowned a little.

"Come," he said, "don't let us discuss me any more; let us play our
sonata. There's only one thing I must beg of you," he added, smoothing
out the leaves of the book on the music stand, "think what you like of
me, call me an egoist even--so be it! but don't call me a man of the
world; that name's insufferable to me.... Anch 'io sono pittore. I
too am an artist, though a poor one--and that--I mean that I'm a poor
artist, I shall show directly. Let us beg