“I should like some, I certainly should, and⁠ ⁠… may I ask you for some tea too,” said Stepan Trofimovitch, reviving.

“Get the samovar? With the greatest pleasure.”

On a large plate with a big blue pattern on it were served the pancakes⁠—regular peasant pancakes, thin, made half of wheat, covered with fresh hot butter, most delicious pancakes. Stepan Trofimovitch tasted them with relish.

“How rich they are and how good! And if one could only have un doigt d’eau-de-vie .”

“It’s a drop of vodka you would like, sir, isn’t it?”

“Just so, just so, a little, un tout petit rien .”

“Five farthings’ worth, I suppose?”