or not the decision about Flerov should be put to the vote.  He forgot, as Sergey Ivanovitch explained to him afterwards, this syllogism:  that it was necessary for the public good to get rid of the marshal of the province; that to get rid of the marshal it was necessary to have a majority of votes; that to get a majority of votes it was necessary to secure Flerov’s right to vote; that to secure the recognition of Flerov’s right to vote they must decide on the interpretation to be put on the act.

“And one vote may decide the whole question, and one must be serious and consecutive, if one wants to be of use in public life,” concluded Sergey Ivanovitch.  But Levin forgot all that, and it was painful to him to see all these excellent persons, for whom he had a respect, in such an unpleasant and vicious state of excitement.  To escape from this painful feeling he went away into the other room where there was nobody except the waiters at the refreshment bar.  Seeing the waiters busy over washing up the crockery and setting in order their plates and wine glasses, seeing their calm and cheerful faces, Levin felt an unexpected sense of relief as though he had come out of a stuffy room into the fresh air.  He began walking up and down, looking with pleasure at the waiters.  He particularly liked the way one gray-whiskered waiter, who showed his scorn for the other younger ones and was jeered at by them, was teaching them how to fold up napkins properly.  Levin was just about to enter into conversation with the old waiter, when the secretary of the court of wardship, a little old man whose specialty it was to know all the noblemen of the province by name and patronymic, drew him away.

“Please come, Konstantin Dmitrievitch,” he said, “your brother’s looking for you.  They are voting on the legal point.”

Levin walked into the room, received a white ball, and followed his brother, Sergey Ivanovitch, to the table where Sviazhsky was standing with a significant and ironical face, holding his beard in his fist and sniffing at it.  Sergey Ivanovitch put his hand into the box, put the ball somewhere, and making room for Levin, stopped.  Levin advanced, but utterly forgetting what he was to do, and much embarrassed, he turned to Sergey Ivanovitch with the question, “Where am I to put it?” He asked this softly, at a moment when there was talking going on near, so that he had hoped his question would not be overheard.  But the persons speaking paused, and his improper question was overheard.  Sergey Ivanovitch frowned.

“That is a matter for each man’s own decision,” he said severely.

Several people smiled.  Levin crimsoned, hurriedly thrust his hand under the cloth, and put the ball to the right as it was in his right hand.  Having put it in, he recollected that he ought to have thrust his left hand too, and so he thrust it in though too late, and, still more overcome with confusion, he beat a hasty retreat into the background.