"You met him?" she asked, when they had sat down at the table in
the lamplight. "You're punished, you see, for being late."
"Yes; but how was it? Wasn't he to be at the council?"
"He had been and come back, and was going out somewhere again.
But that's no matter. Don't talk about it. Where have you been?
With the prince still?"
She knew every detail of his existence. He was going to say that
he had been up all night and had dropped asleep, but looking at
her thrilled and rapturous face, he was ashamed. And he said he
had had to go to report on the prince's departure.
"But it's over now? He is gone!"
"Thank God it's over! You wouldn't believe how insufferable it's
been for me."
"Why so? Isn't it the life all of you, all young men, always
lead?" she said, knitting her brows; and taking up the crochet
work that was lying on the table, she began drawing the hook out
of it, without looking at Vronsky.
"I gave that life up long ago," said he, wondering at the change
in her face, and trying to divine its meaning. "And I confess,"
he said, with a smile, showing his thick, white teeth, "this week
I've been, as it were, looking at myself in a glass, seeing that
life, and I didn't like it."
She held the work in her hands, but did not crochet, and looked
at him with strange, shining, and hostile eyes.
"This morning Liza came to see me--they're not afraid to call on
me, in spite of the Countess Lidia Ivanovna," she put in--"and
she told me about your Athenian evening. How loathsome!"
"I was just going to say..."
She interrupted him. "It was that Therese you used to know?"