“What is there to talk over? I’ll let you know to-morrow.”
“Why, the most important thing of all—the printing-press! Do believe me that I am not in jest, that I really want to work in good earnest!” Liza assured him in growing agitation. “If we decide to publish it, where is it to be printed? You know it’s a most important question, for we shan’t go to Moscow for it, and the printing-press here is out of the question for such a publication. I made up my mind long ago to set up a printing-press of my own, in your name perhaps—and I know maman will allow it so long as it is in your name.…”
“How do you know that I could be a printer?” Shatov asked sullenly.
“Why, Pyotr Stepanovitch told me of you in Switzerland, and referred me to you as one who knows the business and able to set up a printing-press. He even meant to give me a note to you from himself, but I forgot it.”
Shatov’s face changed, as I recollect now. He stood for a few seconds longer, then went out of the room.
Liza was angry.
“Does he always go out like that?” she asked, turning to me.
I was just shrugging my shoulders when Shatov suddenly came back, went straight up to the table and put down the roll of papers he had taken.
“I’m not going to be your helper, I haven’t the time.…”
“Why? Why? I think you are angry!” Liza asked him in a grieved and imploring voice.