women did not forsake him for a minute, probably not even in his sleep.  Walking along the street he would every minute nudge Lichonin, Soloviev or some other companion with his elbow, and would say, smacking his lips and jerking his head backward at a woman who had passed by:  “Tse, tse, tse...  VAI-VAI!  A ree-markable wooman!  What a look she gave me.  If I wish it, she’ll be mine! ...”

This funny shortcoming about him was known; this trait of his was ridiculed good-naturedly and unceremoniously, but willingly forgiven for the sake of that independent comradely obligingness and faithfulness to his word, given to a man (oaths to women did not count), of which he was so naturally possessed.  However, it must be said that he did in reality enjoy great success with women.  Sempstresses, modistes, chorus girls, girls in candy stores, and telephone girls melted from the intense gaze of his heavy, soft, and languishing dark-blue eyes.

“Un-to this house and all those righteously, peacefully and without sin inhabiting it ...”  Soloviev started in to vociferate like an arch-deacon and suddenly missed fire.  “Father-prelates,” he began to murmur in astonishment, trying to continue the unsuccessful jest.  “Why, but this is ...  This is ... ah, the devil ... this is Sonya, no, my mistake, Nadya ...  Well, yes!  Liubka from Anna Markovna’s ...”

Liubka blushed hotly, to the verge of tears, and covered her face with her palms.  Lichonin noticed this, understood, sensed the thoroughly agitated soul of the girl, and came to her aid.  He sternly, almost rudely, stopped Soloviev.

“Perfectly correct, Soloviev.  As in a directory.  Liubka from the Yamkas.  Formerly a prostitute.  Even more, still yesterday a prostitute.  But from to-day—­my friend, my sister.  And so let everyone, who respects me to any extent, regard her.  Otherwise ...”

The ponderous Soloviev hurriedly, sincerely, and powerfully embraced and rumpled Lichonin.

“Well, dear fellow, well, that’s enough ...  I committed a stupidity in the flurry.  It won’t be repeated any more.  Hail, my pale-faced sister.”  He extended his hand with a broad sweep across the table to Liubka, and squeezed her listless, small and short fingers with gnawed, tiny nails.  “It’s fine—­your coming into our modest wigwam.  This will refresh us and implant in our midst quiet and decent customs.  Alexandra!  Be-er!” he began to call loudly.  “We’ve grown wild, coarse; have become mired in foul speech, drunkenness, laziness and other vices.  And all because we were deprived of the salutary, pacifying influence of feminine society.  Once again I press your hand.  Your charming, little hand.  Beer!”

“Coming,” the displeased voice of Alexandra could be heard on the other side of the door.  “I’m coming.  What you yelling for?  How much do you want?”

Soloviev went out into the corridor to explain.  Lichonin smiled after him gratefully; while the Georgian on his way slapped him benignly on the back, between his shoulder blades.  Both understood and appreciated the belated, somewhat coarse delicacy of Soloviev.