In the foyer of one of the private theatres a small committee of local barristers who had undertaken to conduct the cases of those who had suffered in the last pogrom against the Jews was reaching the end of its daily task.  There were nineteen of them, all juniors, young, progressive and conscientious men.  The sitting was without formality, and white suits of duck, flannel and alpaca were in the majority.  They sat anywhere, at little marble tables, and the chairman stood in front of an empty counter where chocolates were sold in the winter.

The barristers were quite exhausted by the heat which poured in through the windows, with the dazzling sunlight and the noise of the streets.  The proceedings went lazily and with a certain irritation.

A tall young man with a fair moustache and thin hair was in the chair.  He was dreaming voluptuously how he would be off in an instant on his new-bought bicycle to the bungalow.  He would undress quickly, and without waiting to cool, still bathed in sweat, would fling himself into the clear, cold, sweet-smelling sea.  His whole body was enervated and tense, thrilled by the thought.  Impatiently moving the papers before him, he spoke in a drowsy voice.

“So, Joseph Moritzovich will conduct the case of Rubinchik...  Perhaps there is still a statement to be made on the order of the day?”

His youngest colleague, a short, stout Karaite, very black and lively, said in a whisper so that every one could hear:  “On the order of the day, the best thing would be iced kvas...”

The chairman gave him a stern side-glance, but could not restrain a smile.  He sighed and put both his hands on the table to raise himself and declare the meeting closed, when the doorkeeper, who stood at the entrance to the theatre, suddenly moved forward and said:  “There are seven people outside, sir.  They want to come in.”

The chairman looked impatiently round the company.

“What is to be done, gentlemen?”

Voices were heard.

“Next time. Basta!”

“Let ’em put it in writing.”

“If they’ll get it over quickly...  Decide it at once.”

“Let ’em go to the devil.  Phew!  It’s like boiling pitch.”

“Let them in.”  The chairman gave a sign with his head, annoyed.  “Then bring me a Vichy, please.  But it must be cold.”

The porter opened the door and called down the corridor:  “Come in. 
They say you may.”

Then seven of the most surprising and unexpected individuals filed into the foyer.  First appeared a full-grown, confident man in a smart suit, of the colour of dry sea-sand, in a magnificent pink shirt with white stripes and a crimson rose in his buttonhole.  From the front his head looked like an upright bean, from the side like a horizontal bean.  His face was adorned with a strong, bushy, martial moustache.  He wore dark blue pince-nez on his nose, on his hands straw-coloured gloves.  In his left hand he held a black walking-stick with a silver mount, in his right a light blue handkerchief.