One heard them counting:
“Eighteen-nineteen. No luck. Oh, that’s a good stroke! Well played! Eleven. You should have played on the red. Twenty. Froze! Froze! Twelve. Ha! Wasn’t I right?”
Varajou ordered:
“A demi-tasse and a small decanter of brandy, the best.” Then he sat down and waited for it.
He was accustomed to spending his evenings off duty with his companions, amid noise and the smoke of pipes. This silence, this quiet, exasperated him. He began to drink; first the coffee, then the brandy, and asked for another decanter. He now wanted to laugh, to shout, to sing, to fight some one. He said to himself:
“Gee, I am half full. I must go and have a good time.”
And he thought he would go and look for some girls to amuse him. He called the waiter:
“Hey, waiter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me, where does one amuse oneself here?”