"This is the zakouschka, I suppose," I said inquiringly; and Mr. Thurber assented.
"It is expected to sharpen the appetite," he added; "but I advise you not to try it with a view to that effect. You will be unable to enjoy your dinner."
"Why don't we sit down for this repast?" I asked.
"Because it only occupies a few minutes."
"Well, I like caviare, and I shall take some, please."
Before I had finished the plateful which he brought me, I was obliged to abandon it, and follow the others into the dining-room.
Much to my disappointment, the dinner was not characteristically Russian. The people who give dinners in Petersburg have French cooks, so there is no opportunity to taste the national dishes. I felt like doing something exciting; a spirit of recklessness entered into me, and I looked about for a good opening. Talking with Mr. Thurber was commonplace; I was too far from George to begin a discussion with him,—besides, he looked too coldly indifferent to be aroused. On my left sat a handsome Russian. I discovered, after a second glance, that he was the same person who had been so attentive to me at the Grand Duke's christening. A sudden thought struck me,—I would make Mr. Thurber jealous!
I turned at once to my Russian neighbor, and began a lively conversation with him. He was rather young, and I tried several subjects before I found one on which it pleased him to talk; and that subject was—postage stamps! The collection which he had, and that which
