“I am fond of the country,” said Vronsky, noticing, and affecting not to notice, Levin’s tone.

“But I hope, count, you would not consent to live in the country always,” said Countess Nordston.

“I don’t know; I have never tried for long.  I experienced a queer feeling once,” he went on.  “I never longed so for the country, Russian country, with bast shoes and peasants, as when I was spending a winter with my mother in Nice.  Nice itself is dull enough, you know.  And indeed, Naples and Sorrento are only pleasant for a short time.  And it’s just there that Russia comes back to me most vividly, and especially the country.  It’s as though...”

He talked on, addressing both Kitty and Levin, turning his serene, friendly eyes from one to the other, and saying obviously just what came into his head.

Noticing that Countess Nordston wanted to say something, he stopped short without finishing what he had begun, and listened attentively to her.

The conversation did not flag for an instant, so that the princess, who always kept in reserve, in case a subject should be lacking, two heavy guns—­the relative advantages of classical and of modern education, and universal military service—­had not to move out either of them, while Countess Nordston had not a chance of chaffing Levin.

Levin wanted to, and could not, take part in the general conversation; saying to himself every instant, “Now go,” he still did not go, as though waiting for something.

The conversation fell upon table-turning and spirits, and Countess Nordston, who believed in spiritualism, began to describe the marvels she had seen.

“Ah, countess, you really must take me, for pity’s sake do take me to see them!  I have never seen anything extraordinary, though I am always on the lookout for it everywhere,” said Vronsky, smiling.

“Very well, next Saturday,” answered Countess Nordston.  “But you, Konstantin Dmitrievitch, do you believe in it?” she asked Levin.

“Why do you ask me?  You know what I shall say.”

“But I want to hear your opinion.”

“My opinion,” answered Levin, “is only that this table-turning simply proves that educated society—­so called—­is no higher than the peasants.  They believe in the evil eye, and in witchcraft and omens, while we...”

“Oh, then you don’t believe in it?”

“I can’t believe in it, countess.”

“But if I’ve seen it myself?”

“The peasant women too tell us they have seen goblins.”

“Then you think I tell a lie?”

And she laughed a mirthless laugh.

“Oh, no, Masha, Konstantin Dmitrievitch said he could not believe in it,” said Kitty, blushing for Levin, and Levin saw this, and, still more exasperated, would have answered, but Vronsky with his bright frank smile rushed to the support of the conversation, which was threatening to become disagreeable.