“No, joking apart, whatever you choose is sure to be good.  I’ve been skating, and I’m hungry.  And don’t imagine,” he added, detecting a look of dissatisfaction on Oblonsky’s face, “that I shan’t appreciate your choice.  I am fond of good things.”

“I should hope so!  After all, it’s one of the pleasures of life,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  “Well, then, my friend, you give us two—­or better say three—­dozen oysters, clear soup with vegetables...”

“Printaniere,” prompted the Tatar.  But Stepan Arkadyevitch apparently did not care to allow him the satisfaction of giving the French names of the dishes.

“With vegetables in it, you know.  Then turbot with thick sauce, then...roast beef; and mind it’s good.  Yes, and capons, perhaps, and then sweets.”

The Tatar, recollecting that it was Stepan Arkadyevitch’s way not to call the dishes by the names in the French bill of fare, did not repeat them after him, but could not resist rehearsing the whole menu to himself according to the bill:—­“Soupe printaniere, turbot, sauce Beaumarchais, poulard a l’estragon, macedoine de fruits...etc.,” and then instantly, as though worked by springs, laying down one bound bill of fare, he took up another, the list of wines, and submitted it to Stepan Arkadyevitch.

“What shall we drink?”

“What you like, only not too much.  Champagne,” said Levin.

“What! to start with?  You’re right though, I dare say.  Do you like the white seal?”

“Cachet blanc,” prompted the Tatar.

“Very well, then, give us that brand with the oysters, and then we’ll see.”

“Yes, sir.  And what table wine?”

“You can give us Nuits.  Oh, no, better the classic Chablis.”

“Yes, sir.  And your cheese, your excellency?”

“Oh, yes, Parmesan.  Or would you like another?”

“No, it’s all the same to me,” said Levin, unable to suppress a smile.

And the Tatar ran off with flying coat-tails, and in five minutes darted in with a dish of opened oysters on mother-of-pearl shells, and a bottle between his fingers.

Stepan Arkadyevitch crushed the starchy napkin, tucked it into his waistcoat, and settling his arms comfortably, started on the oysters.

“Not bad,” he said, stripping the oysters from the pearly shell with a silver fork, and swallowing them one after another.  “Not bad,” he repeated, turning his dewy, brilliant eyes from Levin to the Tatar.

Levin ate the oysters indeed, though white bread and cheese would have pleased him better.  But he was admiring Oblonsky.  Even the Tatar, uncorking the bottle and pouring the sparkling wine into the delicate glasses, glanced at Stepan Arkadyevitch, and settled his white cravat with a perceptible smile of satisfaction.

“You don’t care much for oysters, do you?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, emptying his wine glass, “or you’re worried about something.  Eh?”