experienced an
artistic glow; and, if he did not sing faultlessly, at all events he
shrugged his shoulders, swayed his body to and fro, and from time to
time lifted his hand aloft, like a genuine vocalist.

Varvara Pavlovna afterwards played two or three little pieces by
Thalberg, and coquettishly chanted a French song. Maria Dmitrievna
did not know how to express her delight, and several times she felt
inclined to send for Liza. Gedeonovsky, too, could not find words
worthy of the occasion, and could only shake his head. Suddenly,
however, and quite unexpectedly, he yawned, and only just contrived to
hide his mouth with his hand.

That yawn did not escape Varvara's notice. She suddenly turned her
back upon the piano, saying, "_Assez de musique comme ca_; let us talk
a little," and crossed her hands before her.

"_Oui, asses de musique_," gladly repeated Panshine, and began a
conversation with her--a brisk and airy conversation, carried on
in French. "Exactly as if it were in one of the best Paris
drawing-rooms," thought Maria Dmitrievna, listening to their quick and
supple talk.

Panshine felt completely happy. He smiled, and his eyes shone. At
first, when he happened to meet Maria Dmitrievna's eyes, he would pass
his hand across his face and frown and sigh abruptly, but after a time
he entirely forgot her presence, and gave himself up unreservedly to
the enjoyment of a half-fashionable, half-artistic chat.

Varvara Pavlovna proved herself a great philosopher. She had an answer
ready for everything; she doubted nothing; she did not hesitate at
anything. It was evident that she had talked often and much with all
kinds of clever people. All her thoughts and feelings circled around
Paris. When Panshine made literature the subject of the conversation,
it turned out that she, like him, had read nothing but French books.
George Sand irritated her; Balzac she esteemed, although he wearied
her; to Eugene Sue and Scribe she ascribed a profound knowledge of the
human heart; Dumas and Feval she adored. In reality she preferred Paul
de Kock to all the others; but, as may be supposed, she did not even
mention his name. To tell the truth, literature did not interest her
overmuch.

Varvara Pavlovna avoided with great skill every thing that might, even
remotely, allude to her position. In all that she said, there was not
even the slightest mention made of love; on the contrary, her language
seemed rather to express an austere