"We have been having a little music here; it is a pity that you did not hear Varvára Pávlovna. She sings superbly, un artiste consommée."
"Come here, ma chérie,"—rang out Márya Dmítrievna's voice.
Varvára Pávlovna instantly, with the submissiveness of a little child, went up to her, and seated herself on a small tabouret at her feet. Márya Dmítrievna had called her for the purpose of leaving her daughter alone with Pánshin, if only for a moment: she still secretly cherished the hope that the girl would come to her senses. Moreover, a thought had occurred to her, to which she desired to give immediate expression.
"Do you know,"—she whispered to Varvára Pávlovna:—"I want to make an effort to reconcile you with your husband: I do not guarantee success, but I will try. You know that he has great respect for me."
Varvára Pávlovna slowly raised her eyes to Márya Dmítrievna, and clasped her hands prettily.
"You would be my saviour, ma tante,"—she said, in a mournful voice:—"I do not know how to thank you for all your affection; but I am too guilty toward Feódor Ivánitch; he cannot forgive me."
"But is it possible that you ... really ..." began Márya Dmítrievna, with curiosity.
"Do not ask me,"—Varvára Pávlovna interrupted her, and dropped her eyes.—"I was young, giddy.... However, I do not wish to defend myself."
"Well, nevertheless, why not make the effort? Do not despair,"—returned Márya Dmítrievna, and was on the point of patting her on the shoulder, but glanced at her face—and grew timid. "She is a modest, modest creature,"—she thought,—"and exactly like a young girl still."
"Are you ill?"—Pánshin was saying, meanwhile, to Liza.