“‘Where are we fools to drink tea!’” [271] I answered, repeating a pet phrase of one of the cleverest rogues of past times, once celebrated in song by Pushkin.
“Tell me, does my uniform fit me well?... Oh, the cursed Jew!... How it cuts me under the armpits!... Have you got any scent?”
“Good gracious, what more do you want? You are reeking of rose pomade as it is.”
“Never mind. Give me some”...
He poured half a phial over his cravat, his pocket-handkerchief, his sleeves.
“You are going to dance?” he asked.
“I think not.”
“I am afraid I shall have to lead off the mazurka with Princess Mary, and I scarcely know a single figure”...
“Have you asked her to dance the mazurka with you?”
“Not yet”...