As we luxuriate, one by one the neighbors of the Russian colony come in, to hear the news of Kiahta from Alexsimevich. The expedition has become part of the gossip-transportation system. Half the population of Kiahta must have sent messages here,--half the Russian traders in Urga have come to receive them. First, there is the general news dispensed into the expectant ears of the group at Varlakoff’s. Alexsimevich is for an hour the cynosure. Questions and answers flash back and forth, going off sometimes explosively like fireworks. Then follow the special events and the individual messages. At last these are all detailed. Now come invitations from various men to visit their houses “Will the _gaspadine_ come?”--“The _gaspadine_ must see the city.”--“_Da! da!_” echoes the group. Varlakoff goes out for his stick and overcoat. The wool-merchant gets into his fleece-lined _shuba_. He achieves the feat by the usual Siberian method. Putting the garment over his head, he pushes his arms through the sleeves, and gradually struggles and writhes up into it as one gets into a wet bathing-suit. Alexsimevich finishes his fourth glass of tea, lights one of the _Hazan’s_ cigarettes, and worms his way also into his deerskin greatcoat. Then out we go into the bright sunlight and the snow-covered streets. [Illustration: TEMPLE OF GIGIN, URGA] The houses of the Russian quarter of Urga were only glimpsed in the dusk of last night. We have daylight upon them now. Squat whitewashed buildings they are, with neatly paned windows and big square chimneys. Across the mounds and hillocks of a broad street is the one-storied Russian Club, where one may drink vodka, play billiards or cards, and while away the winter evenings. Further on is a row of shops. The bearded owners stand behind their counters, dressed in belted Mongol _shubas_ and Russian fur caps. The doors to all the shops are open, that the Mongols, perplexed with knobs, may not take their trade elsewhere. Enameled kettles are hanging in festoons down the walls. The shelves are crowded with bolts of vivid-colored cotton cloths to be sewed into _shubas_ by the Mongols who ride in to buy. There are big cases of sweetmeats, Moscowski caramels, acceptable offerings to the grotesque _dokchits_ on the family shrines. Russian monopoly tobacco is there, in stamped paper packets for the delectation of Muscovites and Buriats who have the taste and the means, and villainous South-China tobacco and snuff for native purchasers. One can get vodka almost as bad as that of Siberia, and far cheaper, for it is compounded by a local distiller who rejoices in an excise-less market. Foreign brandies and wines fill big walls of shelves. “_Zdravstvouitie!_” one of the merchants calls, hailing our party. “It is Vassili Michaeloff, old friend of mine,” says Alexsimevich. “Let us go in.” We enter and are led back into the private part of the house. “_Chai!_” shouts the host to somebody behind the oven.