The table was laid again. Almer drank red wine and ate with relish
some sort of bird served with truffles, and ordered a matelote of
eelpouts and a sterlet with its tail in its mouth. Frolov only drank
vodka and ate nothing but bread. He rubbed his face with his open
hands, scowled, and was evidently out of humour. Both were silent.
There was a stillness. Two electric lights in opaque shades flickered
and hissed as though they were angry. The gypsy girls passed the
door, softly humming.

"One drinks and is none the merrier," said Frolov. "The more I pour
into myself, the more sober I become. Other people grow festive
with vodka, but I suffer from anger, disgusting thoughts, sleeplessness.
Why is it, old man, that people don't invent some other pleasure
besides drunkenness and debauchery? It's really horrible!"

"You had better send for the gypsy girls."

"Confound them!"

The head of an old gypsy woman appeared in the door from the passage.

"Alexey Semyonitch, the gypsies are asking for tea and brandy,"
said the old woman. "May we order it?"

"Yes," answered Frolov. "You know they get a percentage from the
restaurant keeper for asking the visitors to treat them. Nowadays
you can't even believe a man when he asks for vodka. The people are
all mean, vile, spoilt. Take these waiters, for instance. They have
countenances like professors, and grey heads; they get two hundred