Vronsky had never spoken to him of his passion, but he was aware

that he knew all about it, and that he put the right

interpretation on it, and he was glad to see that in his eyes.

"Ah! yes," he said, to the announcement that Vronsky had been at

the Tverskoys'; and his black eyes shining, he plucked at his

left mustache, and began twisting it into his mouth, a bad habit

he had.

"Well, and what did you do yesterday? Win anything?" asked

Vronsky.

"Eight thousand. But three don't count; he won't pay up."

"Oh, then you can afford to lose over me," said Vronsky,

laughing. (Yashvin had bet heavily on Vronsky in the races.) "No chance of my losing. Mahotin's the only one that's risky."

And the conversation passed to forecasts of the coming race, the

only thing Vronsky could think of just now.

"Come along, I've finished," said Vronsky, and getting up he went

to the door. Yashvin got up too, stretching his long legs and

his long back.

"It's too early for me to dine, but I must have a drink. I'll

come along directly. Hi, wine!" he shouted, in his rich voice,

that always rang out so loudly at drill, and set the windows

shaking now.

"No, all right," he shouted again immediately after. "You're

going home, so I'll go with you."

And he walked out with Vronsky.




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