“True, I have learned some. Let it be so to-day; I will sing first, and you afterward. Your work will not run away. If a woman had asked, you would not have refused; you are always opposed to men.”
“For they deserve it.”
“And do you disdain me too?”
“Oh, why should I? But sing something.”
Volodyovski touched the lute; he assumed a comic air, and began to sing in falsetto,—
“I have come to such places
Where no girl will have me!—”
“Oh, that is untrue for you,” interrupted Maryska, blushing as red as a raspberry.
“That’s a soldier’s song,” said Volodyovski, “which we used to sing in winter quarters, wishing some good soul to take pity on us.”
“I would be the first to take pity on you.”
“Thanks to you. If that is true, then I have no reason to sing longer, and I will give the lute into worthier hands.”