venture to pull a hair out of the sinner's head. And tears gushed from

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Vronsky arrived at the theater at half-past eight The performance was in full swing. The little old boxkeeper, recognizing Vronsky as he helped him off with his fur coat, called him `Your Excellency,' and suggested he should not take a check but should simply call Fiodor. In the brightly lighted corridor there was no one but the box opener and two footmen with fur cloaks on their arms listening at the doors. Through the closed doors came the sounds of the discreet staccato accompaniment of the orchestra, and a single female voice rendering distinctly a musical phrase. The door opened to let the box opener slip through, and the phrase drawing to the end reached Vronsky's hearing clearly. But the doors were closed again at once, and Vronsky did not hear the end of the phrase and the cadence of the accompaniment, though he knew from the thunder of applause that it was over. When he entered the hall, brilliantly lighted with chandeliers and gas jets, the noise was still going on. On the stage the singer, bowing and smiling, flashing with bare shoulders and with diamonds, was, with the help of the tenor who had given her his arm, gathering up the bouquets that were clumsily flying over the footlights. Then she went up to a gentleman with glossy pomaded hair parted down the middle, who was stretching across the footlights holding out something to her, and all the public in the stalls as well as in the boxes was in excitement, craning forward, shouting and clapping. The conductor in his high chair assisted in passing the offering, and straightened his white tie. Vronsky walked into the middle of the stalls, and, standing still, began looking about him. That day less than ever was his attention turned upon the familiar, habitual surroundings, the stage, the noise, all the familiar, uninteresting, particolored herd of spectators in the packed theater.

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Oh, no, no;

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With the same patronizing smile he received Mr. George a few

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