it, and understood that it was an afterdinner affair. She knew Stiva had a weakness after dining for faire jouer le télégraphe.

Everything, together with the excellent dinner and the wine, not from Russian merchants, but imported direct from abroad, was extremely dignified, simple, and enjoyable. The party - some twenty - had been selected by Sviiazhsky from among the more active new liberals, all of the same way of thinking, who were at the same time clever and well-bred. They drank, also half in jest, to the health of the new marshal of the province, of the governor, of the bank director, and of `our amiable host.'

Vronsky was satisfied. He had never expected to find so pleasant a tone in the provinces.

Toward the end of dinner it was still more lively. The governor asked Vronsky to come to a concert for the benefit of the brethren which his wife, who was anxious to make his acquaintance, had been getting up:

`There'll be a ball, and you'll see the belle of the province. Worth seeing, really.'

`Not in my line,' Vronsky answered. He liked that English phrase. But he smiled, and promised to come.

Before they rose from the table, when all of them were smoking, Vronsky's valet went up to him with a letter on a tray.

`From Vozdvizhenskoe by special messenger,' he said with a significant expression.

`Astonishing! How like he is to the deputy prosecutor Sventitsky,' said one of the guests in French of the valet, while Vronsky, frowning, read the letter.

The letter was from Anna. Before he read the letter, he knew its contents. Expecting the elections to be over in five days, he had promised to be back on Friday. Today was Saturday, and he knew that the letter contained reproaches for not being back at the time fixed. The letter he had sent the previous evening had probably not reached her yet.

The letter was what he had expected, but the form of it was unexpected, and particularly disagreeable to him. `Annie is very ill, the doctor says it may be inflammation of the lungs. I am losing my head all alone. Princess Varvara is no help, but a hindrance. I expected you the day before yesterday, and yesterday, and now I am sending to find out where you are and what you are doing. I wanted to come myself, but thought better of it, knowing you would dislike it. Send some answer, that I may know what to do.'

The child ill, yet she had thought of coming herself. Their daughter ill - and this hostile tone.

The innocent festivities over the election, and this gloomy, burdensome love to which he had to return, struck Vronsky by their contrast. But he had to go, and by the first train that night he set off home.