"Oh, better give it up," said Jimmie, "and come on home."
The consul obligingly made the desired effort, evidently combining all of our instructions, politely softened by his own judgment. The footman's face betrayed no yielding, and in order the better to refuse to take our cards he put his hands behind him.
"You see, it's no use," said the consul. "Hadn't we better give it up?"
"He won't let you in," said Jimmie, "so don't make a fuss."
"I shall make no fuss," I said, quietly. "But I'll get in, and I'll see Tolstoy, and I'll get all the rest of you in. Give me those cards."
I took two rubles from my purse, and, taking the cards and letter, I handed them all to the footman, saying in lucid English:
"We are coming in, and you are to take these cards to Count Tolstoy."
At the same time, I pointed a decisive forefinger in the direction in which I thought the count was concealed. The obsequious menial took our cards, bowed low, and invited us to enter with true servant's hospitality.
In all Russian houses, as, doubtless, everybody knows, the first floor is given up to an antechambre, where guests remove their wraps and goloshes, and behind this room are the kitchen and servants' quarters. All the living-rooms of the family are generally on the floor above. Having once entered this antechambre, my Bob Acres courage began to ooze.
"Now, I am not going to be rude," I said. "We'll just pretend to be taking off our wraps until we find whether we can be received. I don't mind forcing myself on a servant, but I do object to inconveniencing the master of the house.