.'

    ' "From Granada to Seville . . ." ' Philip Philipovich hummed absentmindedly and pressed the foot-pedal of his marble washbasin. There was a sound of running water.

    'I swear to God,' said the lady, patches of real colour showing through the rouge on her cheeks, 'this will be my last affair. Oh, he's such a brute! Oh, professor! All Moscow knows he's a card-sharper and he can't resist any little tart of a dressmaker who catches his eye. But he's so deliciously young . . .'As she talked the lady pulled out a crumpled blob of lace from under her rustling skirts.

    A mist came in front of the dog's eyes and his brain turned a somersault. To hell with you, he thought vaguely, laying his head on his paws and closing his eyes with embarrassment. I'm not going to try and guess what all this is about -it's beyond me, anyway.

    He was wakened by a tinkling sound and saw that Philip Philipovich had tossed some little shining tubes into a basin.

    The painted lady, her hands pressed to her bosom, was gazing hopefully at Philip Philipovich. Frowning impressively he had sat down at his desk and was writing something.

    'I am going to implant some monkey's ovaries into you, madam,' he announced with a stern look.

    'Oh, professor - not monkey's ?'

    'Yes,' replied Philip Philipovich inexorably.


'When will you operate?' asked the lady in a weak voice, turning pale.

    ' ". . . from Granada to Seville . . ." H'm ... on Monday. You must go into hospital on Monday morning. My assistant will prepare you.'

    'Oh, dear. I don't want to go into hospital. Couldn't you operate here, professor?'

    'I only operate here in extreme cases. It would be very expensive - 500 roubles.'

    'I'll pay, professor!'

    Again came the sound of running water, the feathered hat swayed out, to be replaced by a head as bald as a dinner-plate which embraced Philip Philipovich.