“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?”