The various guests choose their tipple. With the gulp of a mountaineer taking his moonshine, the banker swallows the twenty-year-old French brandy, of the sort that gourmets protractingly sip with their coffee. The little boy slips out to his particular region of the house. The hostess takes her seat at the foot of the table, and the gentlemen pass and repass, bringing her assorted _zakuska_ dishes as at a ball. Caviar from the Volga, Thon mariné from Calais, sprats from Hamburg, Columbia River salmon, are spread out and attacked by the rest of us, standing, free-lunch fashion. One by one the men finish and straggle to their places at the table. Three menservants, with gray blouses and baggy silk trousers falling over their topboots, appear now, one with a huge tureen of bouillon, another with the little silver bowls, and a third with a plate of the _piroushkies_ that accompany the soup. Madame Karetnikov deals out the consommé for the whole table, and also for little Paul and his governess in some outside quarters. Every one begins to eat, without waiting for the hostess or for anybody else. “It is hard work managing a big family like ours,” she allows, in reply to your question about the domestic problem. “We always have seven or eight, and one can never tell how many friends will come in to dine with us.” She casts a solicitous eye over the table, to see that no one has been neglected, and then serves herself. “One must keep the men well fed,” she observes. “Remember that, Marie, when you get married.” Marie at the far end of the table nods assent. “But you must not think of marrying until you are told,” adds the banker. She nods assent to this, too. “Don’t mind him, Marie,” says the official. “He thinks he is living in the time of the Seven Boyars. Take my advice. Pick out the man you want and go for him. You can’t fail.” “Such ideas to put in a girl’s head!” says his sister, smiling. The soup-course is nearly over, when suddenly the banker ejaculates, and jumps up to welcome some new arrivals. “Ah, father!” He runs to a sturdy benignant-looking old man, and kisses him on both his white-bearded cheeks, then does the same to the little old mother. “Come in, come in; we are just beginning.” At once the table is in a state of unstable equilibrium. The old lady is steered to a chair at the head, and the rest are pushed along to make room. The father makes his way, under similar escort, in the direction of the vodka-bottle. “No French brandy for me!” he says, and puts the fiery Russian liquid where it will do the most good. He, too, goes to the far end of the table. The student tells in a low voice that the newcomer is a veteran of Sevastopol, was once the personal friend of Czar Alexander, the Liberator, and was decorated by him for gallantry at Plevna.