A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
And the prince exploded.
'Thirty-nine to love,' sang out the marker.
'Love . . . just look, I'll do the trick with that yellow.' . . . Hlopakov, fidgeting his cue in his hand, took aim, and missed.
'Eh, rrrakalioon,' he cried with vexation.
The prince laughed again.
'What, what, what?'
'Your honour made a miss,' observed the marker.
'Allow me to chalk the cue. . . . Forty love.'
'Yes, gentlemen,' said the prince, addressing the whole company, and not looking at any one in particular; 'you know, Verzhembitskaya must be called before the curtain to-night.'
'To be sure, to be sure, of course,' several voices cried in rivalry, amazingly flattered at the chance of answering the prince's speech; 'Verzhembitskaya, to be sure. . . .'
Verzhembitskaya's an excellent actress, far superior to Sopnyakova,' whined an ugly little man in the corner with moustaches and spectacles. Luckless wretch! he was secretly sighing at Sopnyakova's feet, and the prince did not even vouchsafe him a look.
'Wai-ter, hey, a pipe!' a tall gentleman, with regular features and a most majestic manner—in fact, with all the external symptoms of a card-sharper—muttered into his cravat.
A waiter ran for a pipe, and when he came back, announced to his excellency that the groom Baklaga was asking for him.
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