“Just so. Well, now supposing that I were your wife, what would you do then?”
Byelovzóroff made no answer for a while.—“I would kill myself....”
Zinaída burst out laughing.—“I see that there’s not much to be got out of you.”
The second forfeit fell to Zinaída’s share. She raised her eyes to the ceiling and meditated.—“See here,”—she began at last,—“this is what I have devised.... Imagine to yourselves a magnificent palace, a summer night, and a marvellous ball. This ball is given by the young Queen. Everywhere there are gold, marble, silk, lights, diamonds, flowers, the smoke of incense—all the whims of luxury.”
“Do you love luxury?”—interrupted Lúshin.
“Luxury is beautiful,”—she returned;—“I love everything that is beautiful.”
“More than what is fine?”—he asked.
“That is difficult; somehow I don’t understand. Don’t bother me. So then, there is a magnificent ball. There are many guests, they are all young, very handsome, brave; all are desperately in love with the Queen.”
“Are there no women among the guests?”—inquired Malévsky.
“No—or stay—yes, there are.”