park; almost all of them bowed—some respectfully, others even cringingly. To one of them, a very handsome, fashionably dressed dark man, she called from a distance with the best Parisian accent, 'Comte, vous savez, il ne faut pas venir me voir—ni aujourd' hui ni demain.' The man took off his hat, without speaking, and dropped a low bow.
'Who's that?' asked Sanin with the bad habit of asking questions characteristic of all Russians.
'Oh, a Frenchman, there are lots of them here . . . He's dancing attendance on me too. It's time for our coffee, though. Let's go home; you must be hungry by this time, I should say. My better half must have got his eye-peeps open by now.'
'Better half! Eye-peeps!' Sanin repeated to himself . . . 'And speaks French so well . . . what a strange creature!'
Maria Nikolaevna was not mistaken. When she went back into the hotel with Sanin, her 'better half' or 'dumpling' was already seated, the invariable fez on his head, before a table laid for breakfast.
'I've been waiting for you!' he cried, making a sour face. 'I was on the point of having coffee without you.'
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