still more surprised to find that he danced admirably. He seems to do everything well which he attempts at all. Is he the sedate, unbending man I fancied him at first, or is he the gay, youthful fellow which he now and then seems, or is he a little of both, or is he neither? These are the questions which perplex me. Judith gives me no satisfaction; she says he does not know what he is himself. Tom is no judge; for he has developed a sort of blind idolatry for his new friend.
Mr. Thurber escorted me in to supper at one o'clock. George sat at one end of a long table; we took our places beside him, Judith opposite us, carrying on a brisk flirtation with Mr. Novissilsky. She hardly spoke to any one else.
There was a cup of steaming bouillon before each of us. Mr. Thurber tasted his, and looked at me as I was about to lift mine to my lips.
"I advise you not," he exclaimed.
"What is it?"
"I don't know. Something horrible."
"Do you know what it is?" I inquired of George, who had just swallowed his.
"Batchuk," said he briefly.
I knew as little about it as before, but I attacked it valiantly, and told Mr. Thurber I did not think it so bad after all.
"What is it made of, Count Piloff?" I asked.
"Beets, I believe. But see what you think of this dish."
It was some hot meat, which looked like venison.
