“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 me.”

Varvara Pavlovna sat down at the piano, Panshin stood by her.  They sang through the duet in an undertone, and Varvara Pavlovna corrected him several times as they did so, then they sang it aloud, and then twice repeated the performance of Mira la bianca lu-u-na.  Varvara Pavlovna’s voice had lost its freshness, but she managed it with great skill.  Panshin at first was hesitating, and a little out of tune, then he warmed up, and if his singing was not quite beyond criticism, at least he shrugged his shoulders, swayed his whole person, and lifted his hand from time to time in the most genuine style.  Varvara Pavlovna played two or three little things of Thalberg’s, and coquettishly rendered a little French ballad.  Marya Dmitrievna did not know how to express her delight; she several times tried to send for Lisa.  Gedeonovsky, too, was at a loss for words, and could only nod his head, but all at once he gave an unexpected yawn, and hardly had time to cover his mouth with his! hand.  This yawn did not escape Varvara Pavlovna; she at once turned her back on the piano, observing, “Assez de musique comme ca; let us talk,” and she folded her arms. “oui, assez de musique,” repeated Panshin gaily, and at once he dropped into a chat, alert, light, and in French.  “Precisely as in the best Parisian salon,” thought Marya Dmitrievna, as she listened to their fluent and quick-witted sentences.  Panshin had a sense of complete satisfaction; his eyes shone, and he smiled.  At first he passed his hand across his face, contracted his brows, and sighed spasmodically whenever he chanced to encounter Marya Dmitrievna’s eyes.  But later on he forgot her altogether, and gave himself up entirely to the enjoyment of a half-worldly, half-artistic chat.  Varvara Pavlovna proved to be a great philosopher; she had a ready answer for everything; she never hesitated, never doubted about anything; one could see that she had conversed much with clever men of all kinds.  All her ideas, all her feelings revolved round Paris.  Panshin turned the conversation upon literature; it seemed that, like himself, she read only French books.  George Sand drove her to exasperation, Balzac she respected,