"Yes; on my return home I put on citizen's dress," replied Vronsky, slowly taking out his opera-glasses.
"In this respect, I confess I envy you. When I return from abroad and put these on," said he, touching his epaulets, "I mourn for my liberty."
Serpukhovskoï had long since given up trying to push Vronsky along in his military career, but he continued to have a warm affection for him, and he now seemed especially friendly toward him.
"It is too bad that you lost the first act."
Vronsky, while listening with one ear, examined the boxes and the first tier of seats, with his opera-glass; suddenly Anna's head came into view, proud, and strikingly beautiful, in its frame of laces, next a lady in a turban, and a bald-headed old man, who blinked as he gazed through his opera-glass. Anna was in the fifth box, not more than twenty steps from him; she was seated in the front of the box, turning slightly away, and was talking with Yashvin. The pose of her head, her neck, her beautiful, broad shoulders, the radiance of her eyes and face, — all reminded him of her as she had looked that evening at the ball in Moscow.
But her beauty inspired him with entirely different sentiment; there was no longer anything mysterious in his feeling for her. And so, although her beauty was more extraordinary than ever, and fascinated him, at the same time it was now offensive to him. She did not look in his direction, but he felt that she had already seen him.
When Vronsky again directed his opera-glass toward the box, he saw the Princess Varvara, very red in the face, was laughing unnaturally, and kept looking at the next box; Anna, striking her closed fan on the red vel-vet, was looking away, evidently not seeing and not intending to see what was going on in the next box. Yashvin's face wore the same expression as when he lost at cards; he drew his left mustache more and more into his mouth, frowned, and was looking out of the corner of his eye into the same box.
In this box were the Kartasofs. Vronsky knew them,
