“In drawing, just as in life generally,” observed Panshin, holding his head to right and to left, “lightness and boldness—are the great things.”
At that instant Lemm came into the room, and with a stiff bow was about to leave it; but Panshin, throwing aside album and pencils, placed himself in his way.
“Where are you doing, dear Christopher Fedoritch? Aren’t you going to stay and have tea with us?”
“I go home,” answered Lemm in a surly voice; “my head aches.”
“Oh, what nonsense!—do stop. We’ll have an argument about Shakespeare.”
“My head aches,” repeated the old man.
“We set to work on the sonata of Beethoven without you,” continued Panshin, taking hold of him affectionately and smiling brightly, “but we couldn’t get on at all. Fancy, I couldn’t play two notes together correctly.”
“You’d better have sung your song again,” replied Lemm, removing Panshin’s hands, and he walked away.
Lisa ran after him. She overtook him on the stairs.
“Christopher Fedoritch, I want to tell you,” she said to him in German, accompanying him over the short green grass of the yard to the gate, “I did wrong—forgive me.”