‘Don’t let me have the rest, please,’ interposed Bersenyev.
‘Yet still, I will say, the money was not spent in vain. I saw there such types, especially of women.... Of course, I know; there is no salvation to be found outside of Italy!’
‘You will go to Italy,’ said Bersenyev, without turning towards him, ‘and will do nothing. You will always be pluming your wings and never take flight. We know you!’
‘Stavasser has taken flight.... And he’s not the only one. If I don’t fly, it will prove that I’m a sea penguin, and have no wings. I am stifled here, I want to be in Italy,’ pursued Shubin, ‘there is sunshine, there is beauty.’
A young girl in a large straw hat, with a pink parasol on her shoulder, came into sight at that instant, in the little path along which the friends were walking.
‘But what do I see? Even here, there is beauty—coming to meet us! A humble artist’s compliments to the enchanting Zoya!’ Shubin cried at once, with a theatrical flourish of his hat.
The young girl to whom this exclamation referred, stopped, threatening him with her finger, and, waiting for the two friends to come up to her, she said in a ringing voice:
‘Why is it, gentlemen, you don’t come in to dinner? It is on the table.’
‘What do I hear?’ said Shubin, throwing his arms up. ‘Can it be that you, bewitching Zoya, faced such heat to come and look for us? Dare I think that is the meaning of your words? Tell me, can it be so? Or no, do not utter that word; I shall die of regret on the spot.’
‘Oh, do leave off, Pavel Yakovlitch,’ replied the young girl with some annoyance. ‘Why will you never talk to me seriously? I shall be angry,’ she added with a little coquettish grimace, and she pouted.