In all this Vassilyev saw nothing new or interesting.  It seemed to him that that room, the piano, the looking-glass in its cheap gilt frame, the bunch of white ribbon, the dress with the blue stripes, and the blank indifferent faces, he had seen before and more than once.  Of the darkness, the silence, the secrecy, the guilty smile, of all that he had expected to meet here and had dreaded, he saw no trace.

Everything was ordinary, prosaic, and uninteresting.  Only one thing faintly stirred his curiosity—­the terrible, as it were intentionally designed, bad taste which was visible in the cornices, in the absurd pictures, in the dresses, in the bunch of ribbons.  There was something characteristic and peculiar in this bad taste.

“How poor and stupid it all is!” thought Vassilyev.  “What is there in all this trumpery I see now that can tempt a normal man and excite him to commit the horrible sin of buying a human being for a rouble?  I understand any sin for the sake of splendor, beauty, grace, passion, taste; but what is there here?  What is there here worth sinning for?  But... one mustn’t think!”

“Beardy, treat me to some porter!” said the fair girl, addressing him.

Vassilyev was at once overcome with confusion.

“With pleasure,” he said, bowing politely.  “Only excuse me, madam, I....  I won’t drink with you.  I don’t drink.”

Five minutes later the friends went off into another house.

“Why did you ask for porter?” said the medical student angrily.  “What a millionaire!  You have thrown away six roubles for no reason whatever—­simply waste!”

“If she wants it, why not let her have the pleasure?” said Vassilyev, justifying himself.

“You did not give pleasure to her, but to the ‘Madam.’  They are told to ask the visitors to stand them treat because it is a profit to the keeper.”

“Behold the mill...” hummed the artist, “in ruins now....”

Going into the next house, the friends stopped in the hall and did not go into the drawing-room.  Here, as in the first house, a figure in a black coat, with a sleepy face like a flunkey’s, got up from a sofa in the hall.  Looking at this flunkey, at his face and his shabby black coat, Vassilyev thought:  “What must an ordinary simple Russian have gone through before fate flung him down as a flunkey here?  Where had he been before and what had he done?  What was awaiting him?  Was he married?  Where was his mother, and did she know that he was a servant here?” And Vassilyev could not help particularly noticing the flunkey in each house.  In one of the houses—­he thought it was the fourth—­there was a little spare, frail-looking flunkey with a watch-chain on his waistcoat.  He was reading a newspaper, and took no notice of them when they went in.  Looking at his face Vassilyev, for some reason, thought that a man with such a face might steal, might murder, might bear false witness.  But the face was really interesting:  a big forehead, gray eyes, a little flattened nose, thin compressed lips, and a blankly stupid and at the same time insolent expression like that of a young harrier overtaking a hare.  Vassilyev thought it would be nice to touch this man’s hair, to see whether it was soft or coarse.  It must be coarse like a dog’s.