“We can’t have less⁠—yes, three⁠ ⁠… the mayonnaise, that’s one,” said he, bending down a finger.

“Then am I to order those large sterlets?” asked the steward.

“Yes, it can’t be helped if they won’t take less. Ah, dear me! I was forgetting. We must have another entrée. Ah, goodness gracious!” he clutched at his head. “Who is going to get me the flowers? Mítenka! Eh, Mítenka! Gallop off to our Moscow estate,” he said to the factotum who appeared at his call. “Hurry off and tell Maksímka, the gardener, to set the serfs to work. Say that everything out of the hothouses must be brought here well wrapped up in felt. I must have two hundred pots here on Friday.”