And indeed, even at St. Petersburg, Panshine was looked upon as an efficient public servant; the work “burnt under his hands;” he spoke of it jestingly, as a man of the world should, who does not attach any special importance to his employment; but he was a “doer.”  Heads of departments like such subordinates; he himself never doubted that in time, supposing he really wished it, he would be a Minister.

“You are so good as to say that I won your money,” said Gedeonovsky; “but who won fifteen roubles from me last week?  And besides—­”

“Ah, rogue, rogue!” interrupted Panshine, in a pleasant tone, but with an air of indifference bordering on contempt, and then, without paying him any further attention, he accosted Liza.

“I cannot get the overture to Oberon here,” he began.  “Madame Bielenitsine boasted that she had a complete collection of classical music; but in reality she has nothing but polkas and waltzes.  However, I have already written to Moscow, and you shall have the overture in a week.”

“By the way,” he continued, “I wrote a new romance yesterday; the words are mine as well as the music.  Would you like me to sing it to you?  Madame Bielenitsine thought it very pretty, but her judgment is not worth much.  I want to know your opinion of it.  But, after all, I think I had better sing it by-and-by.”

“Why by-and-by?” exclaimed Maria Dmitrievna, “why not now?”

“To hear is to obey,” answered Panshine, with a sweet and serene smile, which came and went quickly; and then, having pushed a chair up to the piano, he sat down, struck a few chords, and began to sing the following romance, pronouncing the words very distinctly

  Amid pale clouds, above the earth,
    The moon rides high,
  And o’er the sea a magic light
    Pours from the sky.

  My Spirit’s waves, as towards the moon,
    Towards thee, love, flow: 
  Its waters stirred by thee alone
    In weal or woe.

  My heart replete with love that grieves
    But yields no cry,
  I suffer—­cold as yonder moon
    Thou passest by.

Panshine sang the second stanza with more than usual expression and feeling; in the stormy accompaniment might be heard the rolling of the waves.  After the words, “I suffer!” he breathed a light sigh, and with downcast eyes let his voice die gradually away.  When he had finished; Liza praised the air, Maria Dmitrievna said, “Charming!” and Gedeonovsky exclaimed, “Enchanting!—­the words and the music are equally enchanting!” Lenochka kept her eyes fixed on the singer with childish reverence.  In a word, the composition of the young dilettante delighted all who were in the room.  But outside the drawing-room door, in the vestibule, there stood, looking on the floor, an old man who had just come into the house, to whom, judging from the expression of his face and the movements of his shoulders, Panshine’s romance, though really pretty, did not afford much pleasure.  After waiting a little, and having dusted his boots with a coarse handkerchief, he suddenly squeezed up his eyes, morosely compressed his lips, gave his already curved back an extra bend, and slowly entered the drawing-room.