faces, like surgeons at an operation.

"How well you know how to manage them!" said Almer, and he laughed.
"But . . . move a little away from the table or you will step in
the caviare."

"Call the engineer here!" cried Frolov.

This was the name given to a decrepit, doleful old man who really
had once been an engineer and very well off; he had squandered all
his property and towards the end of his life had got into a restaurant
where he looked after the waiters and singers and carried out various
commissions relating to the fair sex. Appearing at the summons, he
put his head on one side respectfully.

"Listen, my good man," Frolov said, addressing him. "What's the
meaning of this disorder? How queerly you fellows wait! Don't you
know that I don't like it? Devil take you, I shall give up coming
to you!"

"I beg you graciously to excuse it, Alexey Semyonitch!" said the
engineer, laying his hand on his heart. "I will take steps immediately,
and your slightest wishes shall be carried out in the best and
speediest way."

"Well, that'll do, you can go. . . ."

The engineer bowed, staggered back, still doubled up, and disappeared
through the doorway with a final flash of the false diamonds on his
shirt-front and fingers.