Excited by the possibility of an easy conquest, he was ready to dazzle Liza with the scale of his entertaining.
He considered himself admirably equipped for this, and proudly remembered how easily he had once won the heart of Elena Bour.
It was part of his nature to spend money extravagantly and showily.
He had been famous in Stargorod for his good manners and ability to converse with any woman.
He thought it would be amusing to use his pre-revolutionary polish on conquering a little Soviet girl, who had never seen anything or known anything.
With little persuasion Ippolit Matveyevich took Liza to the Prague Restaurant, the showpiece of the Moscow union of consumer societies; the best place in Moscow, as Bender used to say.
The Prague awed Liza by the copious mirrors, lights and flower-pots.
This was excusable; she had never before been in a restaurant of this kind.
But the mirrored room unexpectedly awed Ippolit Matveyevich, too.
He was out of touch and had forgotten about the world of restaurants.
Now he felt ashamed of his baronial boots with square toes, pre-revolutionary trousers, and yellow, star-spangled waistcoat.
They were both embarrassed and stopped suddenly at the sight of the rather motley public.
"Let's go over there in the corner," suggested Vorobyaninov, although there were tables free just by the stage, where the orchestra was scraping away at the stock potpourri from the "Bayadere".
Liza quickly agreed, feeling that all eyes were upon her.
The social lion and lady-killer, Vorobyaninov, followed her awkwardly.
The social lion's shabby trousers drooped baggily from his thin behind.
The lady-killer hunched his shoulders and began polishing his pince-nez in an attempt to cover up his embarrassment.
No one took their order. Ippolit Matveyevich had not expected this. Instead of gallantly conversing with his lady, he remained silent, sighed, tapped the table timidly with an ashtray, and coughed incessantly.
Liza looked around her with curiosity; the silence became unnatural. But Ippolit Matveyevich could not think of anything to say.
He had forgotten what he usually said in such cases.
"We'd like to order," he called to waiters as they flew past.
"Just coming, sir," cried the waiters without stopping.
A menu was eventually brought, and Ippolit Matveyevich buried himself in it with relief.
"But veal cutlets are two twenty-five, a fillet is two twenty-five, and vodka is five roubles," he mumbled.
"For five roubles you get a large decanter, sir," said the waiter, looking around impatiently.
"What's the matter with me?" Ippolit Matveyevich-asked himself in horror. "I'm making myself ridiculous."
"Here you are," he said to Liza with belated courtesy, "you choose something.
What would you like? "
Liza felt ashamed.
She saw how haughtily the waiter was looking at her escort, and realized he was doing something wrong.
"I'm not at all hungry," she said in a shaky voice. "Or wait, have you anything vegetarian?"
"We don't serve vegetarian dishes.
Maybe a ham omelette? "
"All right, then," said Ippolit Matveyevich, having made up his mind, "bring us some sausages.
You'll eat sausages, won't you, Elizabeth Petrovna?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Sausages, then.
These at a rouble twenty-five each.
And a bottle of vodka."
"It's served by the decanter."
"Then a large one."
The public-catering employee gave the defenceless Liza a knowing look.
"What will you have with the vodka?
Fresh caviar?
Smoked salmon?"
The registry-office employee continued to rage in Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Nothing," he said rudely. "How much are the salted gherkins?
All right, let me have two."
The waiter hurried away and silence reigned once more at the table.
Liza was the first to speak.