What have you come for?" asked Dolly. "What's going on there?"
And in the tone of her question Levin heard that it would be easy for him to say what he had meant to say.
"I've not been in there, I've been alone in the garden with Kitty.
We've had a quarrel for the second time since...Stiva came."
Dolly looked at him with her shrewd, comprehending eyes.
"Come, tell me, honor bright, has there been...not in Kitty, but in that gentleman's behavior, a tone which might be unpleasant-- not unpleasant, but horrible, offensive to a husband?"
"You mean, how shall I say....
Stay, stay in the corner!" she said to Masha, who, detecting a faint smile in her mother's face, had been turning round. "The opinion of the world would be that he is behaving as young men do behave. _Il fait la cour a une jeune et jolie femme_, and a husband who's a man of the world should only be flattered by it."
"Yes, yes," said Levin gloomily; "but you noticed it?"
"Not only I, but Stiva noticed it.
Just after breakfast he said to me in so many words, _Je crois que Veslovsky fait un petit brin de cour a Kitty_."
"Well, that's all right then; now I'm satisfied.
I'll send him away," said Levin.
"What do you mean! Are you crazy?" Dolly cried in horror; "nonsense, Kostya, only think!" she said, laughing. "You can go now to Fanny," she said to Masha. "No, if you wish it, I'll speak to Stiva.
He'll take him away.
He can say you're expecting visitors.
Altogether he doesn't fit into the house."
"No, no, I'll do it myself."
"But you'll quarrel with him?"
"Not a bit.
I shall so enjoy it," Levin said, his eyes flashing with real enjoyment. "Come, forgive her, Dolly, she won't do it again," he said of the little sinner, who had not gone to Fanny, but was standing irresolutely before her mother, waiting and looking up from under her brows to catch her mother's eye.
The mother glanced at her.
The child broke into sobs, hid her face on her mother's lap, and Dolly laid her thin, tender hand on her head.
"And what is there in common between us and him?" thought Levin, and he went off to look for Veslovsky.
As he passed through the passage he gave orders for the carriage to be got ready to drive to the station.
"The spring was broken yesterday," said the footman.
"Well, the covered trap, then, and make haste.
Where's the visitor?"
"The gentleman's gone to his room."
Levin came upon Veslovsky at the moment when the latter, having unpacked his things from his trunk, and laid out some new songs, was putting on his gaiters to go out riding.
Whether there was something exceptional in Levin's face, or that Vassenka was himself conscious that _ce petit brin de cour_ he was making was out of place in this family, but he was somewhat (as much as a young man in society can be) disconcerted at Levin's entrance.
"You ride in gaiters?"
"Yes, it's much cleaner," said Vassenka, putting his fat leg on a chair, fastening the bottom hook, and smiling with simple-hearted good humor.
He was undoubtedly a good-natured fellow, and Levin felt sorry for him and ashamed of himself, as his host, when he saw the shy look on Vassenka's face.
On the table lay a piece of stick which they had broken together that morning, trying their strength.
Levin took the fragment in his hands and began smashing it up, breaking bits off the stick, not knowing how to begin.
"I wanted...." He paused, but suddenly, remembering Kitty and everything that had happened, he said, looking him resolutely in the face:
"I have ordered the horses to be put-to for you." "How so?" Vassenka began in surprise.
"To drive where?" "For you to drive to the station," Levin said gloomily.
"Are you going away, or has something happened?"
"It happens that I expect visitors," said Levin, his strong fingers more and more rapidly breaking off the ends of the split stick. "And I'm not expecting visitors, and nothing has happened, but I beg you to go away.
You can explain my rudeness as you like."
Vassenka drew himself up.
"I beg you to explain..." he said with dignity, understanding at last.
"I can't explain," Levin said softly and deliberately, trying to control the trembling of his jaw; "and you'd better not ask."
And as the split ends were all broken off, Levin clutched the thick ends in his finger, broke the stick in two, and carefully caught the end as it fell.
Probably the sight of those nervous fingers, of the muscles he had proved that morning at gymnastics, of the glittering eyes, the soft voice, and quivering jaws, convinced Vassenka better than any words.
He bowed, shrugging his shoulders, and smiling contemptuously.
"Can I not see Oblonsky?"
The shrug and the smile did not irritate Levin.