“Well, my dear fellow, you are the sort of guest one need not exert oneself to entertain,” said old Zachlebnikoff at last, rising and making for his private study, where he had business of importance awaiting his attention; “and I was led to believe that you were the most morose of hypochondriacs. Dear me! what mistakes one does make about other people, to be sure!”
There was a grand piano in the room, and Velchaninoff suddenly turned to Nadia and remarked:
“You sing, don't you?”
“Who told you I did?” said Nadia curtly.
“Pavel Pavlovitch.”
“It isn't true; I only sing for a joke—I have no voice.”
“Oh, but I have no voice either, and yet I sing!”
“Well, you sing to us first, and then I'll sing,” said Nadia, with sparkling eyes; “not now though—after dinner. I hate music,” she added, “I'm so sick of the piano. We have singing and strumming going on all day here;—and Katie is the only one of us all worth hearing!”
Velchaninoff immediately attacked Katie, and besieged her with petitions to play. This attention from him to her eldest daughter so pleased mamma that she flushed up with satisfaction.
Katie went to the piano, blushing like a school-girl, and evidently much ashamed of herself for blushing; she played some little piece of Haydn's correctly enough but without much expression.