“Why?”
“Because,” was Oblomov’s naïve rejoinder, “things would be so awkward for me if I were to find that you sing badly.”
“Even as, the other day, you found things awkward with the biscuits?” she retorted before she could stop herself. The next moment she reddened as though she would have given worlds to have been able to recall her words. “Pardon me,” she added. “I ought not to have said that.”
Oblomov had been unprepared, and was quite taken aback.
“That was a cruel advantage,” he murmured.
“No—only a small revenge (and an unpremeditated one) for your failure to have had a compliment ready.”
“Then perhaps I will have one ready when I have heard you sing.”
“‘You wish me to sing, then?”
“No; he wishes it.” Oblomov pointed to Schtoltz.
“But what of yourself?”