"Ha, ha, ha! He loves negresses! Ha, ha, ha!"
And all laughed in a friendly manner, even the stout dour Polzikov, who as a rule knew not how to laugh, gave a sickly neigh: "Hee, hee! hee!"
Semyon Vasilyevich laughed also, with a low staccato laugh, like a parched pea; he blushed with pleasure, but at the same time was rather afraid that some unpleasantness might arise.
"Are you really serious?" asked Anton Ivanovich, when he had done laughing.
"Perfectly serious, sir. In them, those black women, there is something so ardent, or—so to speak—exotic."
"Exotic?"
And once more all spluttered with laughter. But, though they laughed, they considered Semyon Vasilyevich quite a clever and educated man, since he knew such a rare word as "exotic." Then they began to argue with warmth that it was impossible for any one to love a negress: they were black and greasy, they had such impossible thick lips, and smelt too strong of musk.
"But I love them," modestly persisted Semyon Vasilyevich.
"Every one to his choice," said Anton Ivanovich with decision; "but I would rather fall in love with a nanny-goat than with one of those blacks."
But all were pleased that among them in the
