AN ORIGINAL
A moment of silence had fallen on the company and amid the clatter of knives on plates, and the confused talk at distant tables, the frou-frou of a dress, and the creaking of the floor under the brisk steps of the waiters, some one's quiet, meek voice was heard:
"But I do love negresses."
Anton Ivanovich coughed over himself the vodka he was in the act of swallowing, and a waiter, who was collecting the plates, cast a glance of indiscriminate curiosity from under his brows. All turned with surprise to the speaker, and then for the first time took notice of the irregular little face with its red moustache, the ends of which were wet with vodka and soup, of the two dull, colourless little eyes, and of the carefully brushed head of Semyon Vasilyevich Kotel'nikov. For five years they had been in the same service as Kotel'nikov, every day they had said "How do you do?" and "Good-bye" to him, and alked to him about something or other; on the 20th of every month, after receiving their stipends, they had dined at the same restaurant as Kotel'nikov, as they were doing to-day; and now for the first time they were really conscious of his presence.
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