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man, he
decided that this voluble individual was not only unofficial but had no
business to be there.
'Who are you? What's your name? ' said the chairman firmly, advancing
on the stranger.
'My name,' replied the man, quite unmoved by this hostile reception, '
is . . . er . . . let's say . . . Koroviev. Wouldn't you like a bite to eat,
Nikanor Ivanovich? As we're friends? '
'Look here,' said Nikanor Ivanovich disagreeably, ' what the hell do
you mean--eat? ' (Sad though it is to admit, Nikanor Ivanovich had no
manners.) ' You're not allowed to come into a dead man's flat! What are you
doing here? '
'Now just sit down, Nikanor Ivanovich,' said the imperturbable
stranger in a wheedling voice, offering Nikanor Ivanovich a chair.
Infuriated, Nikanor Ivanovich kicked the chair away and yelled:
'Who are you? '
'I am employed as interpreter to a foreign gentleman residing in this
flat,' said the self-styled Koroviev by way of introduction as he clicked
the heels of his dirty brown boots.
Nikanor Ivanovich's mouth fell open. A foreigner in this flat,
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