“Do you sing?” said Varvara Pavlovna, enfolding him in a rapid radiant look. “Sit down.”
Panshin began to cry off.
“Sit down,” she repeated insistently, tapping on a chair behind him.
He sat down, coughed, tugged at his collar, and sang his song.
“Charmant,” pronounced Varvara Pavlovna, “you sing very well, vous avez du style, again.”
She walked round the piano and stood just opposite Panshin. He sang it again, increasing the melodramatic tremor in his voice. Varvara Pavlovna stared steadily at him, leaning her elbows on the piano and holding her white hands on a level with her lips. Panshin finished the song.
“Charmant, charmant idée,” she said with the calm self-confidence of a connoisseur. “Tell me, have you composed anything for a woman’s voice, for a mezzo-soprano?”
“I hardly compose at all,” replied Panshin. “That was only thrown off in the intervals of business... but do you sing?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! sing us something,” urged Marya Dmitrievna.