“Soloveitchik—Sanine,” said Von Deitz, introducing the two, and grasping the former’s cold, trembling hand.
Soloveitchik laughed nervously.
“So pleased to meet you!” he said. “I have heard so much about you, and, you know—” He stumbled backwards still holding Sanine’s hand. In doing so he fell against Yourii, and trod on Von Deitz’s foot.
“I beg your pardon, Jakof Adolfovitch!” he exclaimed, as he proceeded to shake Von Deitz’s hand with great energy. Thus it was some time before in the darkness they could find the door. In the ante-room, on rows of nails put up specially for this evening by orderly Soloveitchik, hung hats and caps, while close to the window were dark green bottles containing beer. Even the ante-room was filled with smoke.
In the light Soloveitchik appeared to be a young dark-eyed Jew with curly hair, small features, and bad teeth which, as he was continually smiling, were always displayed.
The newcomers were greeted with a noisy chorus of welcome. Yourii saw Sina Karsavina sitting on the window-sill, and instantly everything seemed to him bright and joyous, as if the meeting were not in a stuffy room full of smoke, but at a festival amid fair green meadows in spring.
Sina, slightly confused, smiled at him pleasantly.
“Well, sirs, I think we are all here, now,” exclaimed Soloveitchik, trying to speak in a loud, cheery way with his feeble, unsteady voice, and gesticulating in ludicrous fashion.
“I beg your pardon, Yourii Nicolaijevitch; I seem to be always pushing against you,” he said, laughing, as he lurched forward in an endeavour to be polite.
Yourii good-humouredly squeezed his arm.