Their conversation about horses interested him, but he did not
for an instant forget Anna, and could not help listening to the
sound of steps in the corridor and looking at the clock on the
chimney piece.

"Anna Arkadyevna gave orders to announce that she has gone to the
theater."

Yashvin, tipping another glass of brandy into the bubbling water,
drank it and got up, buttoning his coat.

"Well, let's go," he said, faintly smiling under his mustache,
and showing by this smile that he knew the cause of Vronsky's
gloominess, and did not attach any significance to it.

"I'm not going," Vronsky answered gloomily.

"Well, I must, I promised to. Good-bye, then. If you do, come
to the stalls; you can take Kruzin's stall," added Yashvin as he
went out.

"No, I'm busy."

"A wife is a care, but it's worse when she's not a wife," thought
Yashvin, as he walked out of the hotel.

Vronsky, left alone, got up from his chair and began pacing up
and down the room.

"And what's today? The fourth night.... Yegor and his wife are
there, and my mother, most likely. Of course all Petersburg's
there. Now she's gone in, taken off her cloak and come into the
light. Tushkevitch, Yashvin, Princess Varvara," he pictured them
to himself.... "What about me? Either that I'm frightened or
have given up to Tushkevitch the right to protect her? From
every point of view--stupid, stupid!... And why is she putting
me in such a position?" he said with a gesture of despair.