man. I don't believe in anyone, I suspect everybody. And the more
friendly you are to me the greater my torment. I keep fancying I
am being flattered for my money. I trust no one! I am a difficult
man, my boy, very difficult!"

Frolov emptied his glass at one gulp and went on.

"But that's all nonsense," he said. "One never ought to speak of
it. It's stupid. I am tipsy and I have been chattering, and now you
are looking at me with lawyer's eyes--glad you know some one
else's secret. Well, well! . . . Let us drop this conversation. Let
us drink! I say," he said, addressing a waiter, "is Mustafa here?
Fetch him in!"

Shortly afterwards there walked into the room a little Tatar boy,
aged about twelve, wearing a dress coat and white gloves.

"Come here!" Frolov said to him. "Explain to us the following fact:
there was a time when you Tatars conquered us and took tribute from
us, but now you serve us as waiters and sell dressing-gowns. How
do you explain such a change?"

Mustafa raised his eyebrows and said in a shrill voice, with a
sing-song intonation: "The mutability of destiny!"

Almer looked at his grave face and went off into peals of laughter.

"Well, give him a rouble!" said Frolov. "He is making his fortune
out of the mutability of destiny. He is only kept here for the sake
of those two words. Drink, Mustafa! You will make a gre-eat rascal!