young count observed negligently; 'he's more interesting.'
'Hugo is a writer of the first class,' replied Neidanov; '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, Neidanov, you were telling me about it not long ago?'
All of us, like Polonius in Hamlet, opined
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