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Petritsky was a young lieutenant, not particularly

well-connected, and not merely not wealthy, but always hopelessly

in debt. Towards evening he was always drunk, and he had often

been locked up after all sorts of ludicrous and disgraceful

scandals, but he was a favorite both of his comrades and his

superior officers. On arriving at twelve o'clock from the station

at his flat, Vronsky saw, at the outer door, a hired carriage

familiar to him. While still outside his own door, as he rang, he

heard masculine laughter, the lisp of a feminine voice, and

Petritsky's voice. "If that's one of the villains, don't let him

in!" Vronsky told the servant not to announce him, and slipped

quietly into the first room. Baroness Shilton, a friend of

Petritsky's, with a rosy little face and flaxen hair, resplendent

in a lilac satin gown, and filling the whole room, like a canary,

with her Parisian chatter, sat at the round table making coffee.