"Come.

Shall we go to my cafe ?" On a neighboring street, a few minutes later, down a flight of steep wooden stairs they descended into a little cafe, shaped like a tunnel, the ceiling low, the bare walls soiled by rubbing elbows, dirty hands, the air blue and hot with smoke.

Young men and girls packed in at small tables bent over tall glasses of Russian tea, and gesturing with their cigarettes declaimed and argued excitedly.

Quick joyous cries of greeting met Isadore from every side.
"You see ?" he said gaily.

"This is my club.