Now, as he talked to his brother of a matter bound to be

exceedingly disagreeable to him, knowing that the eyes of many

people might be fixed upon him, he kept a smiling countenance, as

though he were jesting with his brother about something of little

moment.

"I got it, and I really can't make out what _you_ are worrying

yourself about," said Alexey.

"I'm worrying myself because the remark has just been made to me

that you weren't here, and that you were seen in Peterhof on

Monday."

"There are matters which only concern those directly interested

in them, and the matter you are so worried about is..."

"Yes, but if so, you may as well cut the service...."

"I beg you not to meddle, and that's all I have to say."

Alexey Vronsky's frowning face turned white, and his prominent

lower jaw quivered, which happened rarely with him. Being a man

of very warm heart, he was seldom angry; but when he was angry,

and when his chin quivered, then, as Alexander Vronsky knew, he

was dangerous. Alexander Vronsky smiled gaily.

"I only wanted to give you Mother's letter. Answer it, and don't

worry about anything just before the race. Bonne chance," he

added, smiling and he moved away from him. But after him another

friendly greeting brought Vronsky to a standstill.

"So you won't recognize your friends! How are you, mon cher?"

said Stepan Arkadyevitch, as conspicuously brilliant in the midst

of all the Petersburg brilliance as he was in Moscow, his face

rosy, and his whiskers sleek and glossy. "I came up yesterday,

and I'm delighted that I shall see your triumph. When shall we

meet?"

"Come tomorrow to the messroom," said Vronsky, and squeezing

him by the sleeve of his coat, with apologies, he moved away to

the center of the race course, where the horses were being led

for the great steeplechase.

The horses who had run in the last race were being led home,

steaming and exhausted, by the stable-boys, and one after another

the fresh horses for the coming race made their appearance, for

the most part English racers, wearing horsecloths, and looking

with their drawn-up bellies like strange, huge birds. On the

right was led in Frou-Frou, lean and beautiful, lifting up her

elastic, rather long pasterns, as though moved by springs. Not

far from her they were taking the rug off the lop-eared

Gladiator. The strong, exquisite, perfectly correct lines of the

stallion, with his superb hind-quarters and excessively short

pasterns almost over his hoofs, attracted Vronsky's attention in

spite of himself. He would have gone up to his mare, but he was

again detained by an acquaintance.




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