VASILI [to PIKE]. Can I persuade you to accept a little of one of my own
national dishes--caviar?

PIKE. Caviar? I've heard of it. I thought it was Rooshian.

VASILI [disturbed, but instantly recovering, himself]. It is German,
also. Will you not?

[He motions MARIANO to serve PIKE. MARIANO places a spoonful of caviar
on a silver dish at PIKE'S right.]

PIKE. I expect I'd never get to the legislature again if the boys heard
about it. Still, I reckon I'm far enough from home to take a _few_
risks.

[He loads a fork with caviar, and with a smile places it in his mouth.
The smile slowly fades, his face becomes thoughtful, then grave; he
slowly sets the fork upon his plate, his eyes turn toward VASILI with a
look both puzzled and plaintive, his mouth firmly closed, his jaw moving
slightly.]

VASILI. I fear you do not like it. A few swallows of vodka will take
away the taste.

[Gives him a glass, which PIKE accepts, drinking a mouthful in haste,
VASILI watching him, sincerely concerned and troubled. PIKE swallows the
vodka, quietly sets the glass down on the table, his eyelids begin to
flutter, he bends a look of suffering and distrust upon VASILI, slowly
rises and closes his eyes, then slowly sits and opens them. Gradually a
faint, distrustful smile appears on his face.]