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He felt that Yashvin, in spite of his apparent contempt for every

sort of feeling, was the only man who could, so he fancied,

comprehend the intense passion which now filled his whole life.

Moreover, he felt certain that Yashvin, as it was, took no

delight in gossip and scandal, and interpreted his feeling

rightly, that is to say, knew and believed that this passion was

not a jest, not a pastime, but something more serious and

important.

Vronsky had never spoken to him of his passion, but he was aware

that he knew all about it, and that he put the right

interpretation on it, and he was glad to see that in his eyes.

"Ah! yes," he said, to the announcement that Vronsky had been at

the Tverskoys'; and his black eyes shining, he plucked at his

left mustache, and began twisting it into his mouth, a bad habit

he had.

"Well, and what did you do yesterday? Win anything?" asked

Vronsky.

"Eight thousand. But three don't count; he won't pay up."