"What ails you to-day, Nadia?" interrupted Marie with some vexation. 
    Nadejda rose suddenly and threw her hat upon a chair.  "In heaven's name, Macha, sing us something, please do.  I shall give you no peace until we have heard you.  Come, Macha, my dear, I should have sung myself to entertain this gentleman, who is evidently bored, but you know how poor my voice is.  In return, you shall see how I shall accompany you."
    "One always has to yield to you," said Marie, after a moment's pause.  "You are a spoiled child, accustomed to have every one humor your whims.  Come, I am going to sing."
    "Brava, brava!" cried Nadejda clapping her hands. (The Galaxy, Church, v.15, 1873)