row of white teeth. Kupfer came up to him.
'Well, my dear boy, what do you think of her?' he asked, beaming all over with satisfaction.
'It's a fine voice,' replied Aratov; 'but she doesn't know how to sing yet; she 's no real musical knowledge.' (Why he said this, and what conception he had himself of 'musical knowledge,' the Lord only knows!)
Kupfer was surprised. 'No musical knowledge,' he repeated slowly. . . . 'Well, as to that . . . she can acquire that. But what soul! Wait a bit, though; you shall hear her in Tatiana's letter.'
He hurried away from Aratov, while the latter said to himself, 'Soul! with that immovable face!' He thought that she moved and held herself like one hypnotised, like a somnambulist. And at the same time she was unmistakably . . . yes! unmistakably looking at him.
Meanwhile the matinée went on. The fat man in spectacles appeared again; in spite of his serious exterior, he fancied himself a comic actor, and recited a scene from Gogol, this time without eliciting a single token of approbation. There was another glimpse of the flute-player; another thunder-clap from the pianist; a boy of
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