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As he listened to Petritsky's familiar stories in the familiar

setting of the rooms he had spent the last three years in,

Vronsky felt a delightful sense of coming back to the careless

Petersburg life that he was used to.

"Impossible!" he cried, letting down the pedal of the washing

basin in which he had been sousing his healthy red neck.

"Impossible!" he cried, at the news that Laura had flung over

Fertinghof and had made up to Mileev. "And is he as stupid and

pleased as ever? Well, and how's Buzulukov?"

"Oh, there is a tale about Buzulukov-simply lovely!" cried

Petritsky. "You know his weakness for balls, and he never misses

a single court ball. He went to a big ball in a new helmet. Have

you seen the new helmets? Very nice, lighter. Well, so he's

standing.... No, I say, do listen."

"I am listening," answered Vronsky, rubbing himself with a rough

towel.