but he wearied her; in Sue and Scribe she saw great knowledge of human nature, Dumas and Feval she adored.  In her heart she preferred Paul de Kock to all of them, but of course she did not even mention his name.  To tell the truth, literature had no great interest for her.  Varvara Pavlovna very skilfully avoided all that could even remotely recall her position; there was no reference to love in her remarks; on the contrary, they were rather expressive of austerity in regard to the allurements of passion, of disillusionment and resignation.  Panshin disputed with her; she did not agree with him . . . . but, strange to say! . . . at the very time when words of censure-often of severe censure—­were coming from her lips, these words had a soft caressing sound, and her eyes spoke . . . precisely what those lovely eyes spoke, it was hard to say; but at least their utterances were anything but severe, and were full of undefined sweetness.

Panshin tried to interpret their secret meaning, he tried to make his own eyes speak, but he felt he was not successful; he was conscious that Varvara Pavlovna, in the character of a real lioness from abroad, stood high above him, and consequently was not completely master of himself.  Varvara Pavlovna had a habit in conversation of lightly touching the sleeve of the person she was talking to; those momentary contacts had a most disquieting influence on Vladimir Nikolaitch.  Varvara Pavlovna possessed the faculty of getting on easily with every one; before two hours had passed it seemed to Panshin that he had known her for an age, and Lisa, the same Lisa whom, at any-rate, he had loved, to whom he had the evening before offered his hand, had vanished as it were into a mist.  Tea was brought in; the conversation became still more unconstrained.  Marya Dmitrievna rang for the page and gave orders to ask Lisa to come down if her head were better.  Panshin, hearing Lisa’s name, fell to discussing self-sacrifice and the question which was more capable of sacrifice—­man or woman.  Marya Dmitrievna at once became excited, began to maintain that woman is more the ready for sacrifice, declared that she would prove it in a couple of words, got confused and finished up by a rather unfortunate comparison.  Varvara Pavlovna took up a music-book and half-hiding behind it and bending towards Panshin, she observed in a whisper, as she nibbled a biscuit, with a serene smile on her lips and in her eyes, “Elle n’a pas invente la poudre, la bonne dame.”  Panshin was a little taken aback and amazed at Varvara Pavlovna’s audacity; but he did not realise how much contempt for himself was concealed in this unexpected outbreak, and forgetting Marya Dmitrievna’s kindness and devotion, forgetting all the dinners she had given him, and the money she had lent him, he replied (luckless mortal!) with the same smile and in the same tone, “je crois bien,” and not even, je crois bien, but j’crois ben!

Varvara flung him a friendly glance and got up.  Lisa came in:  Marfa Timofyevna had tried in vain to hinder her; she was resolved to go through with her sufferings to the end.  Varvara Pavlovna went to meet her together with Panshin, on whose face the former diplomatic expression had reappeared.