Pavel Vassilyevitch liked no articles but his own. When threatened
with the necessity of reading other people's, or listening to them,
he felt as though he were facing the cannon's mouth. Seeing the
manuscript he took fright and hastened to say:

"Very good, . . . leave it, . . . I'll read it."

"Pavel Vassilyevitch," the lady said languishingly, clasping her
hands and raising them in supplication, "I know you're busy. . . .
Your every minute is precious, and I know you're inwardly cursing
me at this moment, but . . . Be kind, allow me to read you my play
. . . . Do be so very sweet!"

"I should be delighted . . ." faltered Pavel Vassilyevitch; "but,
Madam, I'm . . . I'm very busy . . . . I'm . . . I'm obliged to set
off this minute."

"Pavel Vassilyevitch," moaned the lady and her eyes filled with
tears, "I'm asking a sacrifice! I am insolent, I am intrusive, but
be magnanimous. To-morrow I'm leaving for Kazan and I should like
to know your opinion to-day. Grant me half an hour of your attention
. . . only one half-hour . . . I implore you!"

Pavel Vassilyevitch was cotton-wool at core, and could not refuse.
When it seemed to him that the lady was about to burst into sobs
and fall on her knees, he was overcome with confusion and muttered
helplessly.

"Very well; certainly . . . I will listen . . . I will give you