"Yuri Alexievich, my dear fellow, I have a favour to ask you," he blurted out at last in a shy and deprecating tone. "You lead the dance to-night, eh?" "Yes, damn it all! They have so arranged it among themselves. I did try to get off it, kow-towed to the Adjutant--ah, pretty nearly reported myself ill. 'In that case,' said he, 'you must be good enough to hand in a medical certificate.'" "This is what I want you to do for me," Lieschtschenko went on in the same humble voice. "For God's sake see that she does not have to sit out many dances." "Maria Viktorovna?" "Yes, please----" "Double with the yellow in the corner," said Biek-Agamalov, indicating the stroke he intended to make. Being short, he often found billiards very troublesome. To reach the ball now he was obliged to lie lengthways on the table. He became quite red in the face through the effort, and two veins in his forehead swelled to such an extent that they converged at the top of his nose like the letter V.[13] "What a conjurer!" said Olisár in a jeering, ironical tone. "I could not do that." Agamalov's cue touched the ball with a dry, scraping sound. The ball did not move from its place. "Miss!" cried Olisár jubilantly, as he danced a _cancan_ round the billiard table. "Do you snore when you sleep, my pretty creature?" Agamalov banged the thick end of his cue on the floor. "If you ever again speak when I am making a stroke," he roared, his black eyes glittering, "I'll throw up the game." "Don't, whatever you do, get excited. It's so bad for your health. Now it's my turn." Just at that moment in rushed one of the soldiers stationed in the hall for the service of the ladies, and came to attention in front of Romashov. "Your Honour, the ladies would like you to come into the ballroom." Three ladies who had just arrived were already pacing up and down the ballroom. They were none of them exactly young; the eldest of them, the wife of the Club President--Anna Ivanovna Migunov--turned to Romashov and exclaimed in a prim, affected tone, drawling out the words and tossing her head: "Sub-lieutenant Romashov, please order the band to play something whilst we are waiting." "With pleasure, ladies," replied Romashov with a polite bow. He then went up to the orchestra and called to the conductor, "Zisserman, play us something pretty." The first thundering notes of the overture to "Long live the Tsar" rolled through the open windows of the music gallery across the ballroom, and the flames of the candelabra vibrated to the rhythm of the drum beats.