“Good Lord, a bottle of beer fifty kopecks!” the German waxed indignant.  “Why, I will get it in any beer-shop for twelve kopecks.”

“Well, then, go to a beer-shop if it’s cheaper there,” Zociya became offended.  “But if you’ve come to a respectable establishment, the regular price is half a rouble.  We don’t take anything extra.  There, that’s better.  Twenty kopecks change coming to you?”

“Yes, change, without fail,” firmly emphasized the German teacher.  “And I would request of you that nobody else should enter.”

“No, no, no, what are you saying,” Zociya began to bustle near the door.  “Dispose yourself as you please, to your heart’s content.  A pleasant appetite to you.”

Manka locked the door on a hook after her and sat down on the German’s knee, embracing him with her bare arm.

“Are you here long?” he asked, sipping his beer.  He felt dimly that that imitation of love which must immediately take place demanded some sort of psychic propinquity, a more intimate acquaintance, and on that account, despite his impatience, began the usual conversation, which is carried on by almost all men—­ when alone with prostitutes, and which compels the latter to lie almost mechanically, to lie without mortification, enthusiasm or malice, according to a single, very ancient stencil.

“Not long, only the third month.”

“And how old are you?”

“Sixteen,” fibbed Little Manka, taking five years off her age.

“O, such a young one!” the German wondered, and began, bending down and grunting, to take off his boots.  “Then how did you get here?”

“Well, a certain officer deprived me of my innocence there...near his birthplace.  And it’s terrible how strict my mamma is.  If she was to find out, she’d strangle me with her own hands.  Well, so then I ran away from home and got in here...”

“And did you love that same officer, the one who was the first one, now?”

“If I hadn’t loved him, I wouldn’t have gone to him.  He promised to marry me, the scoundrel, but then managed to get what he was after, and abandoned me.”

“Well, and were you ashamed the first time?”

“Of course, you’d be ashamed...How do you like it, daddy, with light or without light?  I’ll turn, down the lantern a little.  All right?”

“Well, and aren’t you bored here?  What do they call you?”

“Manya.  To be sure I’m bored.  What sort of a life is ours!”

The German kissed her hard on her lips and again asked: 

“And do you love the men?  Are there men who please you?  Who afford you pleasure?”

“How shouldn’t there be?” Manka started laughing.  “I love the ones like you especially, such nice little fatties.”

“You love them?  Eh?  Why do you love them?”

“Oh, I love them just so.  You’re nice, too.”

The German meditated for a few seconds, pensively sipping away at his beer.  Then he said that which every man tells a prostitute in these moments preceding the casual possession of her body: