“Why don’t you dance, my brown-haired darling?” she asked. “What do you feel so bored about?” “Because it is boring.” “Stand me a Château Lafitte, then you won’t be bored.” Vassiliev made no answer. For a little while he was silent, then he asked: “What time do you go to bed as a rule?” “Six.” “When do you get up?” “Sometimes two, sometimes three.” “And after you get up what do you do?” “We drink coffee. We have dinner at seven.” “And what do you have for dinner?” “Soup or _schi_ as a rule, beef-steak, dessert. Our madame keeps the girls well. But what are you asking all this for?” “Just to have a talk....” Vassiliev wanted to ask about all sorts of things. He had a strong desire to find out where she came from, were her parents alive, and did they know she was here; how she got into the house; was she happy and contented, or gloomy and depressed with dark thoughts. Does she ever hope to escape.... But he could not possibly think how to begin, or how to put his questions without seeming indiscreet. He thought for a long while and asked: “How old are you?” “Eighty,” joked the girl, looking and laughing at the tricks the painter was doing with his hands and feet. She suddenly giggled and uttered a long filthy expression aloud so that every one could hear. Vassiliev, terrified, not knowing how to look, began to laugh uneasily. He alone smiled: all the others, his friends, the musicians and the women--paid no attention to his neighbour. They might never have heard. “Stand me a Lafitte,” said the girl again. Vassiliev was suddenly repelled by her white trimming and her voice and left her. It seemed to him close and hot. His heart began to beat slowly and violently, like a hammer, one, two, three. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, pulling the painter’s sleeve. “Wait. Let’s finish it.” While the medico and the painter were finishing their quadrille, Vassiliev, in order to avoid the women, eyed the musicians. The pianist was a nice old man with spectacles, with a face like Marshal Basin; the fiddler a young man with a short, fair beard dressed in the latest fashion. The young man was not stupid or starved, on the contrary he looked clever, young and fresh. He was dressed with a touch of originality, and played with emotion. Problem: how did he and the decent old man get here? Why aren’t they ashamed to sit here? What do they think about when they look at the women?