Her bare shoulders and arms gave Kitty a sense of chill marble, a feeling she particularly liked.

Her eyes sparkled, and her rosy lips could not keep from smiling from the consciousness of her own attractiveness.

She had scarcely entered the ballroom and reached the throng of ladies, all tulle, ribbons, lace, and flowers, waiting to be asked to dance--Kitty was never one of that throng--when she was asked for a waltz, and asked by the best partner, the first star in the hierarchy of the ballroom, a renowned director of dances, a married man, handsome and well-built, Yegorushka Korsunsky.

He had only just left the Countess Bonina, with whom he had danced the first half of the waltz, and, scanning his kingdom--that is to say, a few couples who had started dancing--he caught sight of Kitty, entering, and flew up to her with that peculiar, easy amble which is confined to directors of balls.