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"But you're ill or worried," he went on, not letting go her hands

and bending over her. "What were you thinking of?"

"Always the same thing," she said, with a smile.

She spoke the truth. If ever at any moment she had been asked

what she was thinking of, she could have answered truly: of the

same thing, of her happiness and her unhappiness. She was

thinking, just when he came upon her, of this: why was it, she

wondered, that to others, to Betsy (she knew of her secret

connection with Tushkevitch) it was all easy, while to her it was

such torture? Today this thought gained special poignancy from

certain other considerations. She asked him about the races. He

answered her questions, and, seeing that she was agitated, trying

to calm her, he began telling her in the simplest tone the

details of his preparations for the races.