"No."
"Take your dinner," said Piotr with a nod toward the table. "Be quick about it."
"Why treat him to remnants?" asked Maklakov calmly. Then he stepped to the door, opened it, and called out, "Dinner, please."
"You try," Sasha snuffled to Piotr, "to persuade that idiot Afanasov to give us the printing-press they seized last year."
"Very well, I'll try," Piotr assented meditatively.
Maklakov did not look at them, but silently twisted his mustache. Dinner was served. A round pock-marked modest-looking man made his appearance in the room at the same time as the waiter. He smiled at everyone benevolently, and shook Yevsey's hand vigorously.
"My name is Solovyov," he said to him. "Have you heard the news, friends? This evening there will be a banquet of the revolutionists at Chistov's hall. Three of our fellows will go there as butlers, among others you, Piotr."
"I again?" shouted Piotr, and his face became covered with red blotches. His anger made him look older. "The third time in two months that I have had to play lackey! Excuse me! I don't want to."
"Don't address me on the subject," said Solovyov affably.
"What does it mean? Why do they choose just me to be a servant?"