“Do you know how to play picquet?” she asked him with a kind of hidden vexation, and then declared that she had thrown away a wrong card.
Panshin counted ninety, and began calmly and urbanely taking tricks with a severe and dignified expression of face. So it befits diplomatists to play; this was no doubt how he played in Petersburg with some influential dignitary, whom he wished to impress with a favourable opinion of his solidity and maturity. “A hundred and one, a hundred and two, hearts, a hundred and three,” sounded his voice in measured tones, and Lavretsky could not decide whether it had a ring of reproach or of self-satisfaction.
“Can I see Marfa Timofyevna?” he inquired, observing that Panshin was setting to work to shuffle the cards with still more dignity. There was not a trace of the artist to be detected in him now.
“I think you can. She is at home, up-stairs,” replied Marya Dmitrievna; “inquire for her.”
Lavretsky went up-stairs. He found Marfa Timofyevna also at cards; she was playing old maid with Nastasya Karpovna. Roska barked at him; but both the old ladies welcomed him cordially. Marfa Timofyevna especially seemed in excellent spirits.
“Ah! Fedya!” she began, “pray sit down, my dear. We are just finishing our game. Would you like some preserve? Shurotchka, bring him a pot of strawberry. You don’t want any? Well, sit there; only you mustn’t smoke; I can’t bear your tobacco, and it makes Matross sneeze.”
Lavretsky made haste to assure her that he had not the least desire to smoke.
“Have you been down-stairs?” the old lady continued. “Whom did you see there? Is Panshin still on view? Did you see Lisa? No? She was meaning to come up here. And here she is: speak of angels—”
Lisa came into the room, and she flushed when she saw Lavretsky.
“I came in for a minute, Marfa Timofyevna,” she was beginning.