at and which we
must give up eating?"

"That will regulate itself. It is only those who have nothing to do who
have no time to do it in, and must be carried, in all haste, from place
to place. Busy people always have time for everything." And the count
proceeded to develop this argument. The foundation, of course, was the
same as for his other doctrines,--the dependence on one's self,
freeing others from bondage to his wants and whims. The principle is
excellent; but it would be easier for most of us to resist the
temptation to do otherwise on a desert island, than to lead such a
Robinson Crusoe and physical encyclopedic existence in a city of today.
This is almost the only argument which I felt capable of offering in
opposition.

Thus we discussed, as we walked along the streets of China Town. When
the sidewalk was narrow, the count took to the gutter. And so we came to
the old wall and the place where there is a perennial market, which
bears various names,--the Pushing Market, the Louse Market, and so on,
--and which is said to be the resort of thieves and receivers of stolen
goods. Strangers always hit upon it the first thing. We had ventured
into its borders alone, had chatted with a cobbler, inspected the
complete workshop on the sidewalk, priced the work,--"real, artistic,
high-priced jobs were worth thirty to forty kopeks,"--had promised to
fetch our boots to be repaired with tacks and whipcord,--"when they
needed it,"--and had received an unblushing appeal for a bottle of
_vodka_ in which to drink the health of ourselves and the cobblers. With
true feminine faith in the efficacy of a man's presence, we now enjoyed
the prospect of going through the middle of it, for its entire length. I
related the cobbler episode to explain why I did not give the count a
job, and the count seemed to find no little difficulty in not laughing
outright.

Imagine a very broad street, extending for several blocks, flanked on
one side by respectable buildings, on the other by the old, battlemented
city wall, crowned with straggling bushes, into which are built tiny
houses with a frontage of two or three windows, and the two stories so
low that one fancies that he could easily touch their roofs. These last
are the real old Moscow merchant houses of two or three hundred years
ago. They still serve as shops and residences, the lower floor being
crammed with cheap goods and old clothes of wondrous hues and patterns,
which overflow upo