The room which they now entered, furnished with an attempt at comfort, half as office, half as smoking lounge, was filled with some twelve or fourteen men, of all ages, and apparently, judging from their clothes, of very mixed social positions; while four or five of them, collarless, and probably shirtless, wore working jackets and clumsy boots; some wore beautifully cut dress-clothes and spotless linen, with a flower in their button-hole, and one elderly man, with pointed grey beard, and handsome, aristocratic features, wore two or three decorations fastened to his coat. All, however, whether peer or peasant, seemed on the best of terms together, and smoking pipes and cigarettes of peace and fraternity.
“What news?” asked half a dozen voices, as the new arrivals divested themselves of their grey dominoes, and shook hands with those sitting around.
“The best.”
“Where is he?” asked a voice.
“In Mirkovitch’s fiaker with Maria Stefanowna.”
“And presently?”
“Mirkovitch’s guest at No. 21, Heumarkt.”
The questions and answers followed each other in rapid succession; the tension of suspense had evidently been great, the relief at the news obviously most welcome, for a sigh of satisfaction seemed to rise in unison from a dozen heaving, oppressed chests.
“And Mirkovitch?” asked one of the older men.
“He will be here anon.”