After drinking the vodka and eating the "Zakuska," we sat down to table and devoured crayfish soup. Every one became lively. Politics of course, were discussed. I heard Rozanov say, "Ah, you in Petrograd! What do you know of things? Don't let me hurt any one's feelings, pray.... Most excellent soup, Vera Michailovna--I congratulate you.... But you just wait until Moscow takes things in hand. Why only the other day Maklakoff said to a friend of mine--'It's all nonsense,' he said." And the shrill-voiced young man told a story--"But it wasn't the same man at all. She was so confused when she saw what she'd done, that I give you my word she was on the point of crying. I could see tears... just trembling--on the edge. 'Oh, I beg your pardon,' she said, and the man was such a fool...." Markovitch was busy about the drinks. There was some sherry and some light red wine. Markovitch was proud of having been able to secure it. He was beaming with pride. He explained to everybody how it had been done. He walked round the table and stood, for an instant, with his hand on Vera Michailovna's shoulder. The pies with fish and cabbage in them were handed round. He jested with the old great-aunt. He shouted in her ear: "Now, Aunt Isabella... some wine. Good for you, you know--keep you young...." "No, no, no..." she protested, laughing and shaking her earrings, with tears in her eyes. But he filled her glass and she drank it and coughed, still protesting. "Thank you, thank you," she chattered as Bohun dived under the table and found her bag for her. I saw that he did not like the crayfish soup, and was distressed because he had so large a helping. He blushed and looked at his plate, then began again to eat and stopped. "Don't you like it?" one of the giggling girls asked him. "But it's very good. Have another 'Pie!'"