‘No, I have not read it, and indeed it’s a secret, which must not be spread about; but from Gubaryov one may expect everything, everything! Yes!’ Bambaev sighed and clasped his hands. ‘Ah, if we had two or three intellects like that growing up in Russia, ah, what mightn’t we see then, my God! I tell you one thing, Grisha; whatever pursuit you may have been engaged in in these latter days--and I don’t even know what your pursuits are in general--whatever your convictions may be--I don’t know them either--from him, Gubaryov, you will find something to learn. Unluckily, he is not here for long. We must make the most of him; we must go. To him, to him!’ A passing dandy with reddish curls and a blue ribbon on his low hat, turned round and stared through his eyeglass with a sarcastic smile at Bambaev. Litvinov felt irritated. ‘What are you shouting for?’ he said; ‘one would think you were hallooing dogs on at a hunt! I have not had dinner yet.’ ‘Well, think of that! we can go at once to Weber’s ... the three of us ... capital! You have the cash to pay for me?’ he added in an undertone. ‘Yes, yes; only, I really don’t know----’ ‘Leave off, please; you will thank me for it, and he will be delighted. Ah, heavens!’ Bambaev interrupted himself. ‘It’s the finale from Ernani they’re playing. How delicious!... _A som ... mo Carlo...._ What a fellow I am, though! In tears in a minute. Well, Semyon Yakovlevitch! Voroshilov! shall we go, eh?’ Voroshilov, who had remained all the while standing with immovable propriety, still maintaining his former haughty dignity of demeanour, dropped his eyes expressively, frowned, and muttered something between his teeth ... But he did not refuse; and Litvinov thought, ‘Well, we may as well do it, as I’ve plenty of time on my hands.’ Bambaev took his arm, but before turning towards the café he beckoned to Isabelle the renowned flower-girl of the Jockey Club: he had conceived the idea of buying a bunch of flowers of her. But the aristocratic flower-girl did not stir; and, indeed, what should induce her to approach a gentleman without gloves, in a soiled fustian jacket, streaky cravat, and boots trodden down at heel, whom she had not even seen in Paris? Then Voroshilov in his turn beckoned to her. To him she responded, and he, taking a tiny bunch of violets from her basket, flung her a florin. He thought to astonish her by his munificence, but not an eyelash on her face quivered, and when he had turned away, she pursed up her mouth contemptuously. Voroshilov was dressed very fashionably, even exquisitely, but the experienced eye of the Parisian girl noted at once in his get-up and in his bearing, in his very walk, which showed traces of premature military drill, the absence of genuine, pure-blooded ‘chic.’