the sort of man I like. Cognac?”

      He was drunk. His glassy eyes shone with a strange light in his pale face. Not until six months later was it discovered that every evening this irreproachably reserved, hard-working, gifted man drank himself unconscious in complete solitude.

      “I might really feel better if I had a drink,” Bobrov thought. “I must try, damn it!”

      Andreas was waiting, holding the bottle tilted and ready. Bobrov put up a tumbler.

      “Want to use that?” asked Andreas, raising his eyebrows.

      “Yes,” replied Bobrov, with a meek, melancholy smile.

      “Good! Say when.”

      “The glass’ll say.”

      “Splendid. One might think you’d served in the Swedish Navy. Enough?”

      “Keep pouring.”

      “But, my friend, don’t forget this is Martel of the VSOP brand – real, strong old cognac.”

      “Keep pouring – don’t worry.”

      “Well, suppose I do get soaked,” he said to himself with malice. “Let her see it.”

      The glass was full. Andreas put down the bottle and curiously watched Bobrov who gulped down the liquor at a draught, and shuddered.

      “Is anything eating you, my child?” asked Andreas, looking earnestly into Bobrov’s eyes.

      “Yes.” Bobrov shook his head dolefully.

      “Gnawing at your heart?”

      “Yes.”

      “Humph! Then you’ll want more.”

      “Fill it,” said Bobrov, sadly submissive.

      He guzzled cognac with disgust, trying hard to dull his pain. But, strangely enough, the liquor had not the least effect on him. In fact, he felt sadder as he drank, and tears burned his eyes more than ever.

      Meanwhile the waiters passed champagne round. Kvashnin rose from his seat, holding his glass with two fingers and peering through it at the light of the high candelabrum. A hush fell. All that could be heard was the hissing of the arc lamps and the tireless chirring of a grasshopper.