"Is there not a party of visitors here, from the town?"
"Yes, in number seven," replied the monk promptly, as if he had
anticipated such a question. "This way, please, on the balcony."
Yourii opened the door. The spacious room was darkened by dense clouds
of tobacco-smoke. Near the balcony there was more light, and one could
hear the jingling of bottles and glasses above the noisy talk and
laughter.
"Life is an incurable malady." It was Schafroff who spoke.
"And you are an incurable fool!" shouted Ivanoff, in reply, "Can't you
stop your eternal phrase-making?"
On entering, Yourii received a boisterous welcome. Schafroff jumped up,
nearly dragging the cloth off the table as he seized Yourii's hand, and
murmured effusively:
"How awfully good of you to come! I am so glad! Really, it's most kind
of you! Thank you ever so much!"
Yourii as he took a seat between Sanine and Peter Ilitsch, proceeded to
look about him. The balcony was brightly lighted by two lamps and a
lantern, and outside this circle of light there seemed to be a black,
impenetrable wall.
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