“Why, what effect could it have?”
“What effect? You might get a chill and die.”
“Truly? Do you mean it? Very well—so much the better.”
“A fine idea!” muttered the doctor. The old princess had gone out.
“Yes, a fine idea,” repeated Zinaïda. “Is life such a festive affair? Just look about you…. Is it nice, eh? Or do you imagine I don’t understand it, and don’t feel it? It gives me pleasure—drinking iced water; and can you seriously assure me that such a life is worth too much to be risked for an instant’s pleasure—happiness I won’t even talk about.”
“Oh, very well,” remarked Lushin, “caprice and irresponsibility…. Those two words sum you up; your whole nature’s contained in those two words.”
Zinaïda laughed nervously.
“You’re late for the post, my dear doctor. You don’t keep a good look-out; you’re behind the times. Put on your spectacles. I’m in no capricious humour now. To make fools of you, to make a fool of myself … much fun there is in that!—and as for irresponsibility … M’sieu Voldemar,” Zinaïda added suddenly, stamping, “don’t make such a melancholy face. I can’t endure people to pity me.” She went quickly out of the room.
“It’s bad for you, very bad for you, this atmosphere, young man,” Lushin said to me once more.