'In the romantic style?' queried Malevsky.
'Of course, in the romantic style--Byronic.'
'Well, to my mind, Hugo beats Byron,' the young count observed negligently; 'he's more interesting.'
'Hugo is a writer of the first class,' replied Meidanov; 'and my friend, Tonkosheev, in his Spanish romance, El Trovador ...'
'Ah! is that the book with the question-marks turned upside down?' Zinaïda interrupted.
'Yes. That's the custom with the Spanish. I was about to observe that Tonkosheev ...'
'Come! you're going to argue about classicism and romanticism again,' Zinaïda interrupted him a second time.' We'd much better play ...
'Forfeits?' put in Lushin.
'No, forfeits are a bore; at comparisons.' (This game Zinaïda had invented herself. Some object was mentioned, every one tried to compare it with something, and the one who chose the best comparison got a prize.) She went up to the window. The sun was just setting; high up in the sky were large red clouds.
'What are those clouds like?' questioned Zinaïda; and without waiting for our answer, she said, 'I think they are like the purple sails on the golden ship of Cleopatra, when she sailed to meet Antony. Do you remember, Meidanov, you were telling me about it not long ago?'
All of us, like Polonius in Hamlet, opined that the clouds recalled nothing so much as those sails, and that not one of us could discover a better comparison.
'And how old was Antony then?' inquired Zinaïda.
'A young man, no doubt,' observed Malevsky.
'Yes, a young man,' Meidanov chimed in in confirmation.
'Excuse me,' cried Lushin, 'he was over forty.'
'Over forty,' repeated Zinaïda, giving him a rapid glance....
I soon went home. 'She is in love,' my lips unconsciously repeated.... 'But with whom?'