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At that moment a tall general walked through the pavilion.

Breaking off what he was saying, Alexey Alexandrovitch got up

hurriedly, though with dignity, and bowed low to the general.

"You're not racing?" the officer asked, chaffing him.

"My race is a harder one," Alexey Alexandrovitch responded

deferentially.

And though the answer meant nothing, the general looked as though

he had heard a witty remark from a witty man, and fully relished

_la pointe de la sauce_.

"There are two aspects," Alexey Alexandrovitch resumed: "those

who take part and those who look on; and love for such spectacles

is an unmistakable proof of a low degree of development in the

spectator, I admit, but...."

"Princess, bets!" sounded Stepan Arkadyevitch's voice from below,

addressing Betsy. "Who's your favorite?"

"Anna and I are for Kuzovlev," replied Betsy.

"I'm for Vronsky. A pair of gloves?"

"Done!"

"But it is a pretty sight, isn't it?"