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Feeling that with the others riding in the race, he was the

center upon which all eyes were fastened, Vronsky walked up to

his mare in that state of nervous tension in which he usually

became deliberate and composed in his movements. Cord, in honor

of the races, had put on his best clothes, a black coat buttoned

up, a stiffly starched collar, which propped up his cheeks, a

round black hat, and top boots. He was calm and dignified as

ever, and was with his own hands holding Frou-Frou by both reins,

standing straight in front of her. Frou-Frou was still trembling

as though in a fever. Her eye, full of fire, glanced sideways at

Vronsky. Vronsky slipped his finger under the saddle-girth. The

mare glanced aslant at him, drew up her lip, and twitched her

ear. The Englishman puckered up his lips, intending to indicate a

smile that anyone should verify his saddling.

"Get up; you won't feel so excited."