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'Yes, I do', Lariosik said modestly, blushing.

'I see, . . . Sorry I interrupted you . . . Senseless, you were saying. Please go on.'

'Yes, senseless, and our wounded souls look for peace somewhere like here, behind cream-colored blinds . . .'

'Well, as for peace, I don't know what things are like in Zhitomir, but I don't think you'll find it here, in the City ... Better give your throat a good wetting with vodka before we start, or you'll feel very dry. May we have some candles? Excellent. In that case someone will have to stand down. Playing five-handed, with one dummy, is no good . . .'

'Nikolka plays like a dummy, anyway', put in Karas.

'What? What a libel! Who lost hands down last time? You revoked.'

'The right place to live is behind cream-colored blinds. I don't know why, but everyone seems to laugh at poets . . .'

'God forbid . . . Why did you take my question amiss? I've nothing against poets. I admit I don't read poetry but . . .'

'And you've never read any other books either except for the artillery manual and the first fifteen pages of Roman law . . . the war broke out on page sixteen and he gave it up . . .'

'Nonsense, don't listen to him . . . What is your name and patronymic - Larion Ivanovich?'

Lariosik explained that he was called Larion Larionovich, but

he found the company so congenial, which wasn't so much company as a friendly family and he would like it very much if they simply called him 'Larion' without his patronymic . . . Provided, of course, no one had any objections.

'Seems a decent fellow . ..' the usually reserved Karas whispered to Shervinsky.

'Good . . . let's get down to the game, then . . . He's lying, of course. If you really want to know, I've read War and Peace. Now there's a book for you. Read it right through - and enjoyed it. Why? Because it wasn't written by any old scribbler but by an artillery officer. Have you drawn a ten? Right, you're my partner . . . Karas partners Shervinsky . . . Out you go, Nikolka.'

'Only don't swear at me please', begged Lariosik in a nervous voice.

'What's the matter with you? We're not cannibals, you know -we won't eat you! I can see the tax inspectors in Zhitomir must be a terrible breed. They seem to have frightened the life out of you . . . We play a very strict game here.'

'So you've no need to worry', said Shervinsky as he sat down.

'Two spades . . . Ye . es . . . now there was a writer for you, Lieutenant Count Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy of the artillery . . . Pity he left the army . . . pass . . . he'd have made general . . . Instead of retiring to his estate, where anyone might turn to novel-writing out of boredom . . . nothing to do in those long winter evenings. Easy enough in the country. No ace . . .'

'Three diamonds', said Lariosik shyly.

'Pass', answered Karas.

'What's all this about being a bad player? You play very well. You deserve to be congratulated, not sworn at. Well then, if you call three diamonds, I'll say four spades. I wouldn't mind going to my estate myself at the moment . . .'

'Four diamonds', Nikolka prompted Lariosik, glancing at his cards.

'Four? Pass.'

'Pass.'

In the flickering light of the candle, amid the cigarette smoke,

Lariosik nervously bought more cards. Like spent cartridges flicking out of a rifle Myshlaevsky dealt the players a card apiece.

'A low spade', he announced, adding encouragingly to Lariosik: 'Well done!'

The cards flew out of Myshlaevsky's hands as noiselessly as maple leaves, Shervinsky threw down neatly, Karas harder and more clumsily. Sighing, Lariosik put down his cards as gently as if each one was an identity card.

'Aha,' said Karas, 'so that's your game - king-on-queen.'

Myshlaevsky suddenly turned purple, flung his cards on the table and swivelling round to stare furiously at Lariosik, he roared:

'Why the hell did you have to trump my queen? Eh, Larion?!'

'Good, Ha, ha, ha!' Karas gloated. 'Our trick I believe!'

A terrible noise broke out over the green table and the candle-flames stuttered. Waving his arms,