“Believe me, gentlemen, that one’s soul rests from all these worldly squabbles in the midst of youth,” he was saying, imparting to his depraved and harsh face an actor-like, exaggerated and improbable expression of being moved.  “This faith in a high ideal, these honest impulses! ...  What can be loftier and purer than our Russian students as a body? ...  Kellner!  Chompa-a-agne!” he yelled deafeningly all of a sudden, and dealt a heavy blow on the table with his fist.

Lichonin and Yarchenka did not wish to remain in debt to him.  A spree began.  God knows in what manner Mishka the Singer and Nicky the Book-keeper soon found themselves in the cabinet, and at once began singing in their galloping voices: 

    “They fe-e-e-el the tru-u-u-uth,
    Come thou daw-aw-aw-awning quicker ...”

There also appeared Roly-Poly, who had awakened.  Letting his head drop touchingly to one side and having made little narrowed, lachrymose, sweet eyes in his wrinkled old face of a Don Quixote, he was speaking in a persuasively begging tone: 

“Gentlemen students ... you ought to treat a little old man.  I love education, by God! ...  Allow me!”

Lichonin was glad to see everybody, but Yarchenko in the beginning—­until the champagne had mounted to his head—­only raised high his small, short eyebrows with a timorous, wondering and naive air.  It suddenly became crowded, smoky, noisy and close in the cabinet.  Simeon, with rattling, closed the blinds with bolts on the outside.  The women, just having gotten done with a visit or in the interim between dances, walked into the room, sat on somebody’s knees, smoked, sang disjointedly, drank wine, kissed and again went away, and again came.  The clerks of Kereshkovsky, offended because the damsels bestowed more attention upon the cabinet than the drawing room, did start a row and tried to enter into a provoking explanation with the students, but Simeon in a moment quelled them with two or three authoritative words, thrown out as though in passing.

Niura came back from her room and a little later Petrovsky followed her.  Petrovsky with an extremely serious air declared that he had been walking on the street all this time, thinking over the incident which had taken place and in the end had come to the conclusion that comrade Boris was in reality not in the right, but that there also was a circumstance in extenuation of his fault—­intoxication.  Also, Jennie came later, but alone—­ Sobashnikov had fallen asleep in her room.  The actor proved to have no end of talents.  He very faithfully imitated the buzzing of a fly which an intoxicated man is catching on a window-pane, and the sounds of a saw; drolly performed, standing with his face in the corner, the conversation of a nervous lady over the telephone; imitated the singing of a phonograph record, and in the end, with exceeding likeness to life, showed a little Persian lad with a little trained monkey.  Holding on with his hand to an imaginary small chain and at the same time baring his teeth, squatting like a monkey, winking his eyelids often, and scratching now his posteriors, now the hair on his head, he sang through his nose, in a monotonous and sad voice, distorting the words: