"_Tu es malade, chérie?_" the other girl was asking. "_Rien, rien_," she was whispering. "_Le chaleur._" "_Oui, il fait très-chaud._" The laughter and shouts of triumph rose higher; the noise of breaking glass was like the waves upon a beach of shingle. "_Pourquoi il te regarde?_" she found herself asking. "_Personne ne me regarde, chérie_," the other girl replied. But somebody was looking at her, somebody seated in one of the boxes for private supper-parties that were fixed all round the hall, somebody tall with short fair hair sticking up like a brush, somebody in uniform. He was beckoning to her now and inviting her to join him in the box. He had slanting eyes, cruel eyes that glittered and glittered. "_Il te regarde. Il te regarde_," said Sylvia, hopelessly. "_Il te veut. Oh, mon Dieu, il te veut! Quoi faire? Il n'y a rien à faire. Il n'y a rien à faire. Il t'aura. Tu seras perdue. Perdue!_" she moaned. "_Dis, Sylvie, dis, qu'est-ce que tu as? Tu me fais peur. Tes yeux sont comme les yeux d'une folle. Est-ce que tu as pris de l'ethère ce soir?_" It seemed to Sylvia that her companion was being dragged to damnation before her eyes, and she implored her to flee while there was still time. Somebody stood up on a table and shouted at the top of his voice: "_Il n'y a plus de champagne!_" The count was much excited by this and demanded immediately how they were going to spend the money they had brought with them. If there was no more champagne, they should have to drink vodka, but first they must play skittles with the empty bottles that were not already broken to pieces. He picked a circular cheese from the table and bowled it across the room. "_Encore du fromage! Encore du fromage!_" everybody was shouting, and soon everywhere crimson cheeses were rolling along the floor. "The cheeses belong to me," the count cried. "Nobody else is to order cheeses. _Garçon! garçon!_ bring me all the cheeses you have. The cheeses are mine. Mine! Mine!" His voice rose to a scream. "_Mon Dieu! ils vont se battre à cause du fromage_" cried the other girl, holding her hand to her eyes and cowering in her chair. By this time the management thought it would soon lose what it had made that evening and ordered the cabaret to be closed. The girls, who were anxious to escape, ran to be paid for their champagne. Sylvia swayed and nearly fell in the rush; her companion kept her head and exacted from the management every copeck. Then she dragged Sylvia with her to a droshky, put her in, and said good night. "_Tu ne viens pas avec moi?_" Sylvia cried. "_Non, non, il faut que j'aille avec lui._" "_Avec l'homme qui te regardait du loge?_" "_Non, non, avec mon ami._"