little white nose, and delicate little moustaches over a tiny mouth. ‘This gentleman has not been playing forfeits with us.’

‘It’s unfair,’ repeated in chorus Byelovzorov and the gentleman described as a retired captain, a man of forty, pock-marked to a hideous degree, curly-headed as a negro, round-shouldered, bandy-legged, and dressed in a military coat without epaulets, worn unbuttoned.

‘Write him a ticket, I tell you,’ repeated the young princess. ‘What’s this mutiny? M’sieu Voldemar is with us for the first time, and there are no rules for him yet. It’s no use grumbling – write it, I wish it.’

The count shrugged his shoulders but bowed submissively, took the pen in his