“I think I do. Or perhaps not ... I really am not sure,” Vronsky answered heedlessly, with a vague recollection of something stiff and tedious evoked by the name Karenina. “But Alexey Alexandrovitch, my celebrated brother-in-law, you surely must know. All the world knows him.” “I know him by reputation and by sight. I know that he’s clever, learned, religious somewhat.... But you know that’s not ... _not in my line,_” said Vronsky in English. “Yes, he’s a very remarkable man; rather a conservative, but a splendid man,” observed Stepan Arkadyevitch, “a splendid man.” “Oh, well, so much the better for him,” said Vronsky smiling. “Oh, you’ve come,” he said, addressing a tall old footman of his mother’s, standing at the door; “come here.” Besides the charm Oblonsky had in general for everyone, Vronsky had felt of late specially drawn to him by the fact that in his imagination he was associated with Kitty. “Well, what do you say? Shall we give a supper on Sunday for the _diva?_” he said to him with a smile, taking his arm. “Of course. I’m collecting subscriptions. Oh, did you make the acquaintance of my friend Levin?” asked Stepan Arkadyevitch. “Yes; but he left rather early.” “He’s a capital fellow,” pursued Oblonsky. “Isn’t he?” “I don’t know why it is,” responded Vronsky, “in all Moscow people—present company of course excepted,” he put in jestingly, “there’s something uncompromising. They are all on the defensive, lose their tempers, as though they all want to make one feel something....” “Yes, that’s true, it is so,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing good-humoredly. “Will the train soon be in?” Vronsky asked a railway official. “The train’s signaled,” answered the man. The approach of the train was more and more evident by the preparatory bustle in the station, the rush of porters, the movement of policemen and attendants, and people meeting the train. Through the frosty vapor could be seen workmen in short sheepskins and soft felt boots crossing the rails of the curving line. The hiss of the boiler could be heard on the distant rails, and the rumble of something heavy. “No,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who felt a great inclination to tell Vronsky of Levin’s intentions in regard to Kitty. “No, you’ve not got a true impression of Levin. He’s a very nervous man, and is sometimes out of humor, it’s true, but then he is often very nice. He’s such a true, honest nature, and a heart of gold. But yesterday there were special reasons,” pursued Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a meaning smile, totally oblivious of the genuine sympathy he had felt the day before for his friend, and feeling the same sympathy now, only for Vronsky. “Yes, there were reasons why he could not help being either particularly happy or particularly unhappy.” Vronsky stood still and asked directly: “How so? Do you mean he made your _belle-sœur_ an offer yesterday?”