"Please, please, Musa Pavlovna, come in! This is my great friend, a splendid fellow--and the soul of discretion. You've no need to be afraid of him. Petya," he turned to me, "let me introduce my Musa--Musa Pavlovna Vinogradov, a great friend of mine."

I bowed.

"How is that . . . Musa?" I was beginning. . . . Tarhov laughed. "Ah, you didn't know there was such a name in the calendar? I didn't know it either, my boy, till I met this dear young lady. Musa! such a charming name! And suits her so well!"

I bowed again to my comrade's great friend. She left the door, took two steps forward and stood still. She was very attractive, but I could not agree with Tarhov's opinion, and inwardly said to myself: "Well, she's a strange sort of muse!"

The features of her curved, rosy face were small and delicate; there was an air of fresh, buoyant youth about all her slender, miniature figure; but of the muse, of the personification of the muse, I--and not only I--all the young people of that time had a very different conception! First of all the muse had infallibly to be dark-haired and pale. An expression of scornful pride, a bitter smile, a glance of inspiration, and that "something"--mysterious, demonic, fateful--that was essential to our conception of the muse, the muse of Byron,