"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 the French language. "Exactly as in the best Parisian salon,"--thought Marya Dmitrievna, as she listened to their evasive and nimble speeches. Panshin felt perfectly contented; his eyes sparkled, he smiled; at first, he passed his hand over his face, contracted his brows, and sighed spasmodically when he chanced to meet the glances of Marya Dmitrievna; but later on, he entirely forgot her, and surrendered himself completely to the enjoyment of the half-fashionable, half-artistic chatter. Varvara Pavlovna showed herself to be a great philosopher: she had an answer ready for everything, she did not hesitate over anything, she doubted nothing; it could be seen that she had talked much and often with clever persons of various sorts. All her thoughts, all her feelings, circled about Paris. Panshin turned the conversation on literature: it appeared that she, as well as he, read only French books: Georges Sand excited her indignation; Balzac she admired, although he fatigued her; in Sue and Scribe she discerned great experts of the heart; she adored Dumas and Feval; in her soul she preferred Paul de Kock to the whole of them, but, of course, she did not even mention his name. To tell the truth, literature did not interest her greatly. Varvara Pavlovna very artfully avoided everything which could even distantly recall her position; there was not a hint about love in her remarks: on the contrary, they were rather distinguished by severity toward