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 begin."

"Very well, let us begin," said Lisa.

The first adagio went fairly successfully though Panshin made more than
one false note. His own compositions and what he had practised
thoroughly he played very nicely, but he played at sight badly. So the
second part of the sonata--a rather quick allegro--broke down
completely; at the twentieth bar, Panshin, who was two bars behind, gave
in, and pushed his chair back with a laugh.

"No!" he cried, "I can't play to-day; it's a good thing Lemm did not
hear us; he would have had a fit."

Lisa got up, shut the piano, and turned round to Panshin.

"What are we going to do?" she asked.

"That's just like you, that question! You can never sit with your hands
idle. Well, if you like let us sketch, since it's not quite dark.
Perhaps the other muse, the muse of painting--what was her name? I have
forgotten... will be more propitious to me. Where's your album? I