"You look like one," said Sasha, with a smile.
"There will be three," Solovyov repeated sighing. "What do you say to having some beer? All right?"
Piotr opened the door, and shouted in an irritated voice:
"Half a dozen beer," and he went to the window clenching his fists and cracking his knuckles.
"There, you see, Maklakov?" said Sasha. "Among us no one wants to work seriously, with enthusiasm. But the revolutionists are pushing right on—banquets, meetings, a shower of literature, open propaganda in the factories!"
Maklakov maintained silence, and did not look at Sasha. Round Solovyov then took up the word, smiling amiably.
"I caught a girl to-day at the railroad station with books. I had already noticed her in a villa in the summer. 'Well,' thought I, 'amuse yourself, my dear.' To-day, as I was walking in the station with no people to track, I was looking about, and there I see her marching along carrying a handbag. I went up to her, and respectfully proposed that she have a couple of words with me. I noticed she started and paled, and hid the bag behind her back. 'Ah,' thinks I, 'my dear little stupid, you've gotten yourself into it.' Well, I immediately took her to the police station, they opened her luggage, and there was the last issue of 'Emancipation' and a whole lot more of their noxious trash. I took the girl to the Department of Safety. What else was I to do? If you can't get Krushin pike, you must eat blinkers. In the carriage she kept her little face turned away from me. I could see her cheeks burned and there were tears in her eyes. But she kept mum. I asked her, 'Are you comfortable, madam?' Not a word in reply."
Solovyov chuckled softly. Trembling rays of wrinkles covered his face.
"Who is she?" asked Maklakov.
"Dr. Melikhov's daughter."