A passing dandy with reddish curls and a blue ribbon on his low hat, turned round and stared through his eyeglass with a sarcastic smile at Bambaev. Litvinov felt irritated.
'What are you shouting for?' he said; 'one would think you were hallooing dogs on at a hunt! I have not had dinner yet.'
'Well, think of that ! we can go at once to Weber's . . . the three of us . . . capital! You have the cash to pay for me?' he added in an undertone.
'Yes, yes; only, I really don't know——'
'Leave off, please; you will thank me for it, and he will be delighted. Ah, heavens!' Bambaev interrupted himself. 'It 's the finale from Ernani they 're playing. How delicious ! . . . A som . . . mo Carlo. . . . What a fellow I am, though! In tears in a minute. Well, Semyon Yakovlevitch! Voroshilov ! shall we go, eh?'
Voroshilov, who had remained all the while standing with immovable propriety, still maintaining his former haughty dignity of demeanour, dropped his eyes expressively, frowned, and muttered something between his teeth . . . But he did not refuse; and Litvinov thought, ' Well, we may as well do it, as I 've plenty of time on my hands.' Bambaev took his arm, but before turning towards the café he beckoned to Isabelle the renowned flower-girl of