in for buying estates; I've no capital. Pass the butter. Perhaps my wife now would buy it. You talk to her about it. If you don't ask too much, she's not above thinking of that.. . . What asses these Germans are, really! They can't cook fish. What could be simpler, one wonders? And yet they go on about "uniting the Fatherland." Waiter, take away that beastly stuff!'
'Does your wife really manage . . . business matters herself?' Sanin inquired.
'Yes. Try the cutlets—they're good. I can recommend them. I've told you already, Dimitri Pavlovitch, I don't interfere in any of my wife's concerns, and I tell you so again.'
Polozov went on munching.
'H'm.. . . But how can I have a talk with her, Ippolit Sidoritch?'
'It's very simple, Dimitri Pavlovitch. Go to Wiesbaden. It's not far from here. Waiter, haven't you any English mustard? No? Brutes! Only don't lose any time. We're starting the day after to-morrow. Let me pour you out a glass of wine; it's wine with a bouquet—no vinegary stuff.'
Polozov's face was flushed and animated; it was never animated but when he was eating—or drinking.
'Really, I don't know, how that could be managed,' Sanin muttered.
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