If the English rugby team ruffled French feathers on Saturday by disrespecting Gallic finesse, perhaps soprano Felicity Lott made amends last night. Her all-French programme offered ample evidence of the wit she brings to a repertoire that she clearly loves.

Lott radiates serenity but always with a hint of naughtiness. The voice has lost some of its lustre, so that the top is no longer so sweet and the bottom no longer so even, but there was no shortage of artistry in the way that she negotiated a wide range of styles and emotions.

It helped that her pianist was Malcolm Martineau, who is so much more than an accompanist. In Ravel's The Swan, Lott caught the conversational humour, but the pianist tells as much of the story as the singer.

So it was in Saint-SaÎns's If You Have Nothing to Tell Me, in which Martineau's playing acquired cocktail bar loucheness, while Lott skilfully underplayed the gentle melancholy.

There was a flirty eroticism to the same composer's The Ladybird, and the lilting waltz of Erik Satie's I Want You had an almost post-coital sensuality that Lott delivered with an air of mischief.

Never one to shirk a challenge, Lott devoted the whole of the second half to Francis Poulenc, who was not shy of a hint of bathos. Nor is Lott, as she showed in Hier (Yesterday).

On the other hand, the vehemence of Figure de Force turned the voice somewhat sour.

Best of all, perhaps, was Hotel, one of three encores (all by Poulenc), which finds a woman sitting alone in her room, watching cigarette smoke curl towards the ceiling.

Here Lott brought together all her skills as singer, actor and story-teller, locating the mix of regret with just a trace of self-pity that is le vrai Poulenc.