conscious of his own innocence, would have defended
himself, but glancing at his master, he saw from his face that
the only thing to do was to be silent, and hurriedly threading
his way in and out, dropped down on the carpet and began
gathering up the whole and broken glasses and bottles.

"That's not your duty; send the waiter to clear away, and get my
dress coat out."

Vronsky went into the theater at half-past eight. The
performance was in full swing. The little old box-keeper,
recognizing Vronsky as he helped him off with his fur coat,
called him "Your Excellency," and suggested he should not take a
number but should simply call Fyodor. In the brightly lighted
corridor there was no one but the box-opener and two attendants
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,
with bare shoulders flashing with diamonds, was, with the help of
the tenor who had given her his arm, gathering up the bouquets
that were flying awkwardly over the footlights. Then she went up
to a gentleman with glossy pomaded hair parted down the center,
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.

There were, as always, the same ladies of some sort with officers
of some sort in the back of the boxes; the same gaily dressed
women--God knows who--and uniforms and black coats; the same