“Gentlemen, take off your overcoats,” said the lackey stiffly. “You’re not allowed in as you are.” Besides the fair girl there was another woman in the salon, very stout and tall, with a foreign face and bare arms. She sat by the piano, with a game of patience spread on her knees. She took no notice of the guests. “Where are the other girls?” asked the medico. “They’re drinking tea,” said the fair one. “Stiepan,” she called out. “Go and tell the girls some students have come!” A little later a third girl entered, in a bright red dress with blue stripes. Her face was thickly and unskilfully painted. Her forehead was hidden under her hair. She stared with dull, frightened eyes. As she came she immediately began to sing in a strong hoarse contralto. After her a fourth girl. After her a fifth. In all this Vassiliev saw nothing new or curious. It seemed to him that he had seen before, and more than once, this salon, piano, cheap gilt mirror, the white bow, the dress with blue stripes and the stupid, indifferent faces. But of darkness, quiet, mystery, and guilty smile--of all he had expected to meet here and which frightened him--he did not see even a shadow. Everything was commonplace, prosaic, and dull. Only one thing provoked his curiosity a little, that was the terrible, as it were intentional lack of taste, which was seen in the overmantels, the absurd pictures, the dresses and the white bow. In this lack of taste there was something characteristic and singular. “How poor and foolish it all is!” thought Vassiliev. “What is there in all this rubbish to tempt a normal man, to provoke him into committing a frightful sin, to buy a living soul for a rouble? I can understand anyone sinning for the sake of splendour, beauty, grace, passion; but what is there here? What tempts people here? But ... it’s no good thinking!” “Whiskers, stand me champagne.” The fair one turned to him. Vassiliev suddenly blushed. “With pleasure,” he said, bowing politely. “But excuse me if I ... I don’t drink with you, I don’t drink.” Five minutes after the friends were off to another house. “Why did you order drinks?” stormed the medico. “What a millionaire, flinging six roubles into the gutter like that for nothing at all.” “Why shouldn’t I give her pleasure if she wants it?” said Vassiliev, justifying himself. “You didn’t give her any pleasure. Madame got that. It’s Madame who tells them to ask the guests for drinks. She makes by it.” “Behold the mill,” the painter began to sing, “Now fall’n to ruin....”