Pavlovna, and she did not adopt
it. On the contrary, she looked him in the face with light-hearted
attention and talked easily, while her delicate nostrils were quivering
as though with suppressed laughter. Marya Dmitrievna began to enlarge on
her talent; Panshin courteously inclined his head, so far as his collar
would permit him, declared that, "he felt sure of it beforehand," and
almost turned the conversation to the diplomatic topic of Metternich
himself. Varvara Pavlovna, with an expressive look in her velvety eyes,
said in a low voice, "Why, but you too are an artist, un confrere,"
adding still lower, "venez!" with a nod towards the piano. The single
word venez thrown at him, instantly, as though by magic, effected a
complete transformation in Panshin's whole appearance. His care-worn
air disappeared; he smiled and grew lively, unbuttoned his coat, and
repeating "a poor artist, alas! Now you, I have heard, are a real
artist; he followed Varvara Pavlovna to the piano....

"Make him sing his song, 'How the Moon Floats,'" cried Marya Dmitrievna.

"Do you sing?" said Varvara Pavlovna, enfolding him in a rapid radiant
look. "Sit down."

Panshin began to cry off.

"Sit down," she repeated insistently, tapping on a chair behind him.

He sat down, coughed, tugged at his collar, and sang his song.

"Charmant," pronounced Varvara Pavlovna, "you sing very well, vous avez
du style, again."

She walked round the piano and stood just opposite Panshin. He sang it
again, increasing the melodramatic tremor in his voice. Varvara Pavlovna
stared steadily at him, leaning her elbows on the piano and holding her
white hands on a level with her lips. Panshin finished the song.

"Charmant, charmant idee," she said with the calm self-confidence of a
connoisseur. "Tell me, have you composed anything for a woman's voice,
for a mezzo-soprano?"

"I hardly compose at all," replied Panshin. "That was only thrown off in
the intervals of business... but do you sing?"

"Yes."

"Oh! sing us something," urged Marya Dmitrievna.

Varvara Pavlovna pushed her hair back off her glowing cheeks and gave
her head a little shake.

"Our voices ought to go well together," she observed, turning to
Panshin; "let us sing a duet. Do you know Son geloso, or La ci darem or
Mira la bianca luna?"

"I used to sing Mira la bianca luna, once," replied Panshin, "but long
ago; I have forgotten it."

"Never mind, we will rehearse it in a low voice. Allow