Peter clicked his heels in the doorway and bowed before he entered. The officers at the table looked up with startled eyes, but inclined their heads slightly in response to the courtesy. But it was plain that his American uniform had attracted special attention, for the women companions of the Cossacks stared at him. Peter wondered if there was any resentment because he wore his belt and pistol, though he could not understand how he had committed any breach of etiquette by being armed, for the young Cossacks were all wearing their pistols and their sabers. The musicians played a German air, sadly, and with good evidence that some of the strings were missing. There were two violins, a ’cello, and a clarinet. A waiter came to Peter. The man was clad in the same bluish-gray as the musicians. He also was a war prisoner, and clicked his heels and was quite military in his manner. “Have you a ticket, sir?” he asked, speaking in English. “Is a ticket necessary?” asked Peter in surprise. “I am staying at the hotel.” “Yes, sir,” said the waiter. “This is an officers’ mess—officers of the Ataman’s army.” “Then I am sorry,” said Peter, reverting to Russian for the benefit of the Cossacks. “I thought this was the hotel restaurant. I had no intention of intruding,” and he pushed back his chair to rise from the table. “You speak Russian, sir,” said the waiter, in Russian. “Yes,” said Peter. “And you speak English surprisingly well—also Russian.” “Hans!” A young Cossack who sat two tables beyond Peter, and faced him, called the waiter away and handed him something. The waiter was back to Peter by the time he had risen to leave the room. “Here is a ticket for you, sir. The Cossack gentleman—the lieutenant—wishes you to have your supper here,” said the waiter. Peter bowed to the young officer, who smiled across the shoulders of the woman with him. He was a thin-faced chap, with heavy black hair down on his forehead after the Cossack fashion. Gold straps covered his shoulders, and a great saber lay outside the table legs, where it swung down to the floor from his belt. Peter sat down again. It would be in the nature of an affront not to accept the proffered hospitality. And the waiter brought thick cabbage soup with a yellowish scum of fat floating on its surface, black bread, a plate of chopped meat, with a mound of boiled grains of wheat, and a glass of tea. During the meal the orchestra continued to play. The Cossacks and their women talked in low tones. Finally, they began to drift away gradually till none was left but the young officer who had sent Peter the supper ticket. And in time his companion disappeared also. Then the young officer approached Peter’s table, and bowed. “You are an American officer, but you speak Russian,” said the Cossack. He smiled and clicked his spurred heels. “Yes,” said Peter, rising and saluting. They shook hands formally.