Panshine slightly frowned.

"Listen," he said; "don't let's talk any more about me; let us begin
our sonata. Only there is one thing I will ask of you," he added, as
he smoothed the sheets which lay on the music-desk with his hand;
"think of me what you will, call me egotist even, I don't object to
that; but don't call me a man of the world, that name is insufferable.
_Anch'io sono pittore_. I too am an artist, though but a poor one, and
that--namely, that I am a poor artist--I am going to prove to you on
the spot. Let us begin."

"Very good, let us begin," said Liza.

The first adagio went off with tolerable success, although Panshine
made several mistakes. What he had written himself, and what he had
learnt by heart, he played very well, but he could not play at sight
correctly. Accordingly the second part of the sonata--tolerably quick
allegro--would not do at all. At the twentieth bar Panshine, who was
a couple of bars behind, gave in, and pushed back his chair with a
laugh.

"No!" he exclaimed, "I cannot play to-day. It is fortunate that Lemm
cannot hear us; he would have had a fit."

Liza stood up, shut the piano, and then turned to Panshine.

"What shall we do then?" she asked.

"That question is so like you! You can never sit with folded hands for