"Why, whatever hope can you have?" said Betsy, offended on behalf

of her friend. "_Enendons nous...._" But in her eyes there were

gleams of light that betrayed that she understood perfectly and

precisely as he did what hope he might have.

"None whatever," said Vronsky, laughing and showing his even rows

of teeth. "Excuse me," he added, taking an opera glass out of

her hand, and proceeding to scrutinize, over her bare shoulder,

the row of boxes facing them. "I'm afraid I'm becoming

ridiculous."

He was very well aware that he ran no risk of being ridiculous in

the eyes of Betsy or any other fashionable people. He was very

well aware that in their eyes the position of an unsuccessful

lover of a girl, or of any woman free to marry, might be

ridiculous. But the position of a man pursuing a married woman,

and, regardless of everything, staking his life on drawing her

into adultery, has something fine and grand about it, and can

never be ridiculous; and so it was with a proud and gay smile

under his mustaches that he lowered the opera glass and looked at

his cousin.

"But why was it you didn't come to dinner?" she said, admiring

him.

"I must tell you about that. I was busily employed, and doing

what, do you suppose? I'll give you a hundred guesses, a

thousand...you'd never guess. I've been reconciling a husband

with a man who'd insulted his wife. Yes, really!"

"Well, did you succeed?"

"Almost."

"You really must tell me about it," she said, getting up. "Come

to me in the next _entr'acte._"

"I can't; I'm going to the French theater."

"From Nilsson?" Betsy queried in horror, though she could not

herself have distinguished Nilsson's voice from any chorus

girl's.

"Can't help it. I've an appointment there, all to do with my

mission of peace."

"Blessed are the peacemakers; theirs is the kingdom of heaven,'"

said Betsy, vaguely recollecting she had heard some similar

saying from someone. "Very well, then, sit down, and tell me

what it's all about."

And she sat down again.




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