led open his collar, and sang his romance.

"_Charmant!_"--said Varvara Pavlovna:--"you sing beautifully, _vous
avez du style_,--sing it again."

She walked round the piano, and took up her stand directly opposite
Panshin. He sang his romance again, imparting a melodramatic quiver to
his voice. Varvara Pavlovna gazed intently at him, with her elbows
propped on the piano, and her white hands on a level with her lips.
Panshin finished.

"_Charmant, charmante idee_,"--said she, with the calm confidence of an
expert.--"Tell me, have you written anything for the female voice, for a
mezzo-soprano?"

"I hardly write anything,"--replied Panshin;--"you see, I only do this
sort of thing in the intervals between business affairs ... but do you
sing?"

"Yes."

"Oh! do sing something for us,"--said Marya Dmitrievna.

Varvara Pavlovna pushed back her hair from her flushed cheeks with her
hand, and shook her head.

"Our voices ought to go well together,"--she said, 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,'"--replied Panshin:--"but I have
forgotten it long ago."

"Never mind, we will try it over in an undertone. Let me come."

Varvara Pavlovna sat down at the piano. Panshin stood beside her. They
sang the duet in an undertone, Varvara Pavlovna correcting him several
times; then they sang it aloud, then they repeated it twice: "Mira la
bianca lu...u...una." Varvara Pavlovna's voice had lost its freshness,
but she managed it very adroitly. Panshin was timid at first, and sang
rather out of tune, but later on he warmed up, and if he did not sing
faultlessly, at least he wriggled his shoulders, swayed his whole body, and
elevated his hand now and then, like a genuine singer. Varvara Pavlovna
played two or three little things of Thalberg's, and coquettishly "recited"
a French ariette. Marya Dmitrievna no longer knew how to express her
delight; several times she was on the point of sending for Liza;
Gedeonovsky, also, found no words and merely rocked his head,--but all of
a sudden he yawned, and barely succeeded in concealing his mouth with his
hand. This yawn did not escape Varvara Pavlovna; she suddenly turned her
back to the piano, said: "_Assez de musique, comme ca_; let us chat,"--and
folded her hands. "_Oui, assez de musique_,"--merrily repeated
Panshin--and struck up a conversation with her,--daring, light, in t