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collar, boomed on:
        'Food, Ivan Arnoldovich, is a subtle thing. One must know how to eat, yet just think - most people don't know how to eat at all. One must not only know what to eat, but when and how.' (Philip Philipovich waved his fork meaningfully.) 'And what to say while you're eating. Yes, my dear sir. If you care about your digestion, my advice is - don't talk about bolshevism or medicine at table. And, God forbid - never read Soviet newspapers before dinner.'
        'M'mm . . . But there are no other newspapers.'
        'In that case don't read any at all. Do you know I once made thirty tests in my clinic. And what do you think? The patients who never read newspapers felt excellent. Those whom I specially made read Pravda all lost weight.
        'H'm . . .' rejoined Bormenthal with interest, turning gently pink from the soup and the wine.
        'And not only did they lose weight. Their knee reflexes were retarded, they lost appetite and exhibited general depression.'
        'Good heavens . . .'
        'Yes, my dear sir. But listen to me - I'm talking about medicine!'
        Leaning back, Philip Philipovich rang the bell and Zina appeared through the cerise portiere. The dog was given a thick, white piece of sturgeon, which he did not like, then immediately afterwards a chunk of underdone roast beef. When he had gulped it down the dog suddenly felt that he wanted to sleep and could not bear the sight of any more food. Strange feeling, he thought, blinking his heavy eyelids, it's as if my eyes won't look at food any longer. As for smoking after they've eaten - that's crazy.
        The dining-room was filling with unpleasant blue smoke. The animal dozed, its head on its forepaws. 'Saint Julien is a very decent wine,' the dog heard sleepily, 'but there's none of it to be had any more.'
        A dull mutter of voices in chorus, muffled by the ceiling and carpets, was heard coming from above and to one side.
        Philip Philipovich rang for Zina. 'Zina my dear, what's that noise?'
        'They're having another general meeting, Philip Philipovich,' replied Zina.
        'What, again?' exclaimed Philip Philipovich mournfully. 'Well, this is the end of this house. I'll have to go away -but where to? I can see exactly what'll happen. First of all there'll be community singing in the evening, then the pipes will freeze in the lavatories, then the central heating boiler will blow up and so on. This is the end.'
        'Philip Philipovich worries himself to death,' said Zina with a smile as she cleared away a pile of plates.
        'How can I help it?' exploded Philip Philipovich. 'Don't you know what this house used to be like?'
        'You take too black a view of things, Philip Philipovich,' objected the handsome Bormenthal. 'There is a considerable change for the better now.'
        'My dear fellow, you know me, don't you? I am a man of facts, a man who observes. I'm the enemy of unsupported hypotheses. And I'm known as such not only in Russia but in Europe too. If I say something, that means that it is based on some fact from which I draw my conclusions. Now there's a fact for you: there is a hat-stand and a rack for boots and galoshes in this house.'
        'Interesting . . .'
        Galoshes - hell. Who cares about galoshes, thought the dog, but he's a great fellow all the
    same.
        'Yes, a rack for galoshes. I have been living in this house since 1903. And from then until March 1917 there was not one case - let me underline in red pencil not one case - of a single pair of galoshes disappearing from that rack even when the front door was open. There are, kindly note, twelve flats in this house and a constant stream of people coming to my consulting-rooms. One fine day in March 1917 all the galoshes disappeared, including two pairs of mine, three walking sticks, an overcoat and the porter's samovar. And since then the rack has ceased to exist. And I won't mention the