tone. "What a queer chap, not to understand a joke. There's no talking to you."
"My dear friend," whimpers Champune, pacified by Kamyshev’s tone, "I swear to you, I am attached to Russia, to you, and to your children. To leave you would be as hard for me as to die. But every word of yours cuts into my heart."
"Oh, you queer fellow! If I abuse the French, why on earth should you feel insulted? There are heaps of people we abuse, and supposing all of them were to feel insulted? You are a queer fellow, really! Just follow the example of Lazar Isakitch, my tenant. Sometimes I call him this, sometimes that, Jew one day, scab another, and make a pig's ear with my coat-tail, and pull him by the earlocks. He doesn’t feel insulted."
"But what a servile creature he is. For a kopeck he'll put up with any degradation."
"Well, well, well . . . Nevermind. Let's go in to dinner. Peace and harmony!"
Champune powders his tear-stained face and follows Kamyshev into the dining-room. The first course is served in silence; after the second, the same performance begins again, and thus Champune's tribulations have no end.
