Lemm made no answer.
“I showed Vladimir Nikolaitch your cantata; I felt sure he would appreciate it,—and he did like it very much really.”
Lemm stopped.
“It’s no matter,” he said in Russian, and then added in his own language, “but he cannot understand anything; how is it you don’t see that? He’s a dilettante—and that’s all!”
“You are unjust to him,” replied Lisa, “he understands everything, and he can do almost everything himself.”
“Yes, everything second-rate, cheap, scamped work. That pleases, and he pleases, and he is glad it is so—and so much the better. I’m not angry; the cantata and I—we are a pair of old fools; I’m a little ashamed, but it’s no matter.”
“Forgive me, Christopher Fedoritch,” Lisa said again.
“It’s no matter,” he repeated in Russian, “you’re a good girl... but here is some one coming to see you. Goodbye. You are a very good girl.”
And Lemm moved with hastened steps towards the gate, through which had entered some gentleman unknown to him in a grey coat and a wide straw hat. Bowing politely to him (he always saluted all new faces in the town of O——-; from acquaintances he always turned aside in the street—that was the rule he had laid down for himself), Lemm passed by and disappeared behind the fence. The stranger looked after him in amazement, and after gazing attentively at Lisa, went straight up to her.