Maria Dmitrievna began to extol Varvara’s cleverness.  Panshine bent his head politely, as far as his shirt-collar permitted him, declared that he had already been convinced of the exceptional nature of her talents, and all but brought round the conversation to the subject of Metternich himself.  Varvara Pavlovna half-closed her velvety eyes, and, having said in a low voice, “But you are an artist also, un confrere,” added still lower, “Venez!” and made a sign with her head in the direction of the piano.  This single word, “Venez!” so abruptly spoken, utterly changed Panshine’s appearance, as if by magic, in a single moment.  His care-worn air disappeared, he began to smile, he became animated, he unbuttoned his coat, and, saying “I am an artist!  Not at all; but you, I hear, are an artist indeed,” he followed Varvara Pavlovna to the piano.

“Tell him to sing the romance, ‘How the moon floats,’” exclaimed Maria Dmitrievna.

“You sing?” asked Varvara Pavlovna, looking at him with a bright and rapid glance.  “Sit down there.”

Panshine began to excuse himself.

“Sit down,” she repeated, tapping the back of the chair in a determined manner.

He sat down, coughed, pulled up his shirt-collar, and sang his romance.

“Charmant,” said Varvara Pavlovna.  “You sing admirably—­vous avez du style.  Sing it again.”

She went round to the other side of the piano, and placed herself exactly opposite Panshine.  He repeated his romance, giving a melodramatic variation to his voice.  Varvara looked at him steadily, resting her elbows on the piano, with her white hands on a level with her lips.  The song ended, “Charmant!  Charmante idee,” she said, with the quiet confidence of a connoisseur.  “Tell me, have you written anything for a woman’s voice—­a mezzo-soprano?”

“I scarcely write anything,” answered Panshine.  “I do so only now and then—­between business hours.  But do you sing?”

“Oh yes! do sing us something,” said Maria Dmitrievna.

Varvara Pavlovna tossed her head, and pushed her hair back from her flushed cheeks.  Then, addressing Panshine, she said—­

“Our voices ought to go well together.  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,’” answered Panshine; but it was a long time ago.  I have forgotten it now.”

“Never mind, we will hum it over first by way of experiment.  Let me come there.”

Varvara Pavlovna sat down to the piano.  Panshine stood by her side.  They hummed over the duet, Varvara Pavlovna correcting him several times; then they sang it out loud, and afterwards repeated it twice—­“Mira la bianca lu-u-una.”  Varvara’s voice had lost its freshness, but she managed it with great skill.  At first Panshine was nervous, and sang rather false, but afterwards he 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.