There was Doctor Tio-King, his _Cornaro_ under his arm; Fulk Ephrinell and Miss Horatia Bluett, mingling their teeth and hair, figuratively, be it understood; Sir Francis Trevellyan, motionless and silent, intractable and stiff, smoking his cigar on the threshold; Faruskiar, accompanied by Ghangir; Russian, Turkoman, Chinese travelers--in all from sixty to eighty persons.

Every one had in his turn to present himself at the table, which was occupied by two Celestials in uniform; a functionary speaking Russian fluently, an interpreter for German, French and English.
The Chinese was a man about fifty, with a bald head, a thick moustache, a long pigtail, and spectacles on his nose.

Wrapped in a flowery robe, fat as if he belonged to the most distinguished people in the country, he had not a prepossessing face.

After all, it was only a verification of our papers, and as ours were in order it did not much matter how repulsive he looked.
"What an air he has!" murmured Madame Caterna.
"The air of a Chinaman!" said her husband, "and frankly I do not want to have one like it." I am one of the first to present my passport, which bears the visas of the consul at Tiflis and the Russian authorities at Uzun-Ada.

The functionary looks at it attentively.