It is an interesting ride in which we move slowly up the Bolshoiskaia, receiving, so far as the banker is concerned, neighborly greetings from most of the sleigh-riders, and respectful salutes from the foot-passers on the sidewalks. A nice social distinction our host draws in returning the formal salute for uniformed officials, the cordial wave of the hand for intimate friends, a nod for the humbler acquaintances: but none go unrecognized. Something like the Roman’s idea of showing his city by turns up and down the Corso, is this Siberian’s. We do halt, however, and look at the big Opera House and the Geographical Society’s Museum and the many-domed Cathedral,--buildings which in no city would be other than sources of satisfaction. After an hour of driving in the piercing cold, one’s conscience begins to prick. The banker, even though absent from his affairs, does not appear to feel either business or atmosphere. At length we are brought at a gallop to the doorstep of the hotel. “To-night we dine at eight. Adieu.” With a bow he draws the bearskin robes about him, and the black horses bear him swiftly around the corner. An acquaintance from the train is in the hallway as you climb stiffly up the steps. “Has the drive been a bit cold?” he asks. “Come in and have a _stakan_ of vodka.” “Is that not rather heady for a between-meal tipple?” you suggest. “This is Siberia. When you run with the wolves, you must cry like a wolf,--but tea, too, is good.” You mount the stairs together, to the scene of last night’s orgy, and order a couple of glasses of tea. It is a strange anticlimax to find the room so deserted. At three this morning it was a good imitation of the traditional “Maxim’s.” At four in the afternoon it is simply a crude wooden hall, with the stiff-backed, plush-seated chairs ranged in bourgeois regularity at the discreetly covered tables. Only the shuffle of somebody practicing a new step on the stage behind the curtains suggests the double life of this innocent-looking hotel dining-room. A couple of glasses of tea attack the cold in strategic fashion, from the inside, and are better than the external reheating method. We sip in silence for a while. “I am going to drive over to the Banno and have a Russian bath,” observes your companion. “I do not like the tin tub they bring around here at the hotel. Are you impelled to come along?” “Is there attendance and room for two? I’m not minded to sit around and wait.” “Room for five hundred,” he says, with a long sweep of the hand. “Everybody goes there. It is one of the institutions of the city.” As you are now warm enough to consider a further drive, you go down to assist in bargaining for a sleigh to make the tour to and from the Banno. A big brick building a verst or so away, with a number of private equipages and a stand for public sleighs and droshkys, is our destination. A beggar-woman opens the double doors and gets her service percentage from each passer.