'and he doesn't once smile; and with it all, he would seem to be a nice lad, and absolutely inexperienced.' Voroshilov began to calm down at last, his voice, youthfully resonant and shrill as a young cock's, broke a little . . . Bambaev seized the opportunity to declaim verses and again nearly burst into tears, which scandalised one table near them, round which was seated an English family, and set another tittering; two Parisian cocottes were dining at this second table with a creature who resembled an ancient baby in a wig. The waiter brought the bill; the friends paid it.
'Well,' cried Bambaev, getting heavily up from his chair, 'now for a cup of coffee, and quick march. There she is, our Russia,' he added, stopping in the doorway, and pointing almost rapturously with his soft red hand to Voroshilov and Litvinov. . . 'What do you think of her?. . .'
'Russia, indeed,' thought Litvinov; and Voroshilov, whose face had by now regained its concentrated expression, again smiled condescendingly, and gave a little tap with his heels.
Within five minutes they were all three mounting the stairs of the hotel where Stepan Nikolaitch Gubaryov was staying. . . . A tall slender lady, in a hat with a short black veil, was coming quickly down the same staircase.
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