“Just so ...  It isn’t even worth the telling...” smiled the reporter evasively.  “A trifle ...  Let’s have your glass here, Mr. Yarchenko.”

But the precipitate Niura, who could never keep her tongue behind her teeth, suddenly shot oat in rapid patter: 

“It’s because Sergei Ivanich gave him one in the snout ...  On account of Ninka.  A certain old man came to Ninka ...  And stayed for the night ...  And Ninka had the flowers ...  And the old man was torturing her all the time ...  So Ninka started crying and ran away.” [Footnote:  The Russian expression is “the red flag.”—­ Trans.]

“Drop it, Niura; it’s boring,” said Platonov with a wry face.

“Can it!” (leave off) ordered Tamara severely, in the jargon of houses of prostitution.

But it was impossible to stop Niura, who had gotten a running start.

“But Ninka says:  ‘I,’ she says, ’won’t stay with him for anything, though you cut me all to pieces ...  He,’ she says, ’has made me all wet with his spit.’  Well, the old man complained to the porter, to be sure, and the porter starts in to beat up Ninka, to be sure.  And Sergei Ivanich at this time was writing for me a letter home, to the province, and when he heard that Ninka was hollering...”

“Zoe, shut her mouth!” said Platonov.

“He just jumped up at once and ... app! ...” and Niura’s torrent instantly broke off, stopped up by Zoe’s palm.

Everybody burst out laughing, only Boris Sobashnikov muttered under cover of the noise with a contemptuous look: 

“Oh, chevalier Sans PEUR et Sans REPROCHE!”

He was already pretty far gone in drink, stood leaning against the wall, in a provoking pose, and was nervously chewing a cigarette.

“Which Ninka is this?” asked Yarchenko with curiosity.  “Is she here?”

“No, she isn’t here.  Such a small, pug-nosed little girl.  Naive and very angry.”  The reporter suddenly and sincerely burst into laughter.  “Excuse me ...  It’s just so ... over my thoughts,” explained he through laughter.  “I recalled this old man very vividly just now, as he was running along the corridor in fright, having grabbed his outer clothing and shoes ...  Such a respectable ancient, with the appearance of an apostle, I even know where he serves.  Why, all of you know him.  But the funniest of all was when he, at last, felt himself out of danger in the drawing room.  You understand—­he is sitting on a chair, putting on his pantaloons, can’t put his foot where it ought to go, by any means, and bawls all over the house:  ’It’s an outrage!  This is an abominable dive!  I’ll show you up! ...  To-morrow I’ll give you twenty-four hours to clear out! ...  Do you know, this combination of pitiful helplessness with the threatening cries was so killing that even the gloomy Simeon started laughing ...  Well, now, apropos of Simeon ...  I say, that life dumfounds, with