of the immorality in such places as Yalta are to a great extent
untrue; he despised them, and knew that such stories were for the
most part made up by persons who would themselves have been glad
to sin if they had been able; but when the lady sat down at the
next table three paces from him, he remembered these tales of easy
conquests, of trips to the mountains, and the tempting thought of
a swift, fleeting love affair, a romance with an unknown woman,
whose name he did not know, suddenly took possession of him.

He beckoned coaxingly to the Pomeranian, and when the dog came up
to him he shook his finger at it. The Pomeranian growled: Gurov
shook his finger at it again.

The lady looked at him and at once dropped her eyes.

"He doesn't bite," she said, and blushed.

"May I give him a bone?" he asked; and when she nodded he asked
courteously, "Have you been long in Yalta?"

"Five days."

"And I have already dragged out a fortnight here."

There was a brief silence.

"Time goes fast, and yet it is so dull here!" she said, not looking
at him.

"That's only the fashion to say it is dull here. A provincial will