She left a note asking him to call on her the same evening, and, shaking her head in wonder at what she had seen, returned to her hotel.

There were two questions relating to her brother that interested Natalie Ivanovna—­his marriage to Katiousha, of which she had heard in her city, where it was a matter of common gossip, and the distribution by him of his land to the peasants, upon which some people looked as something political and dangerous.  From one point of view, she rather liked the idea of his marrying Katiousha.  She admired his resolution, seeing in it herself and him as they had been before her marriage.  At the same time, she was horror-stricken at the thought that her brother was to marry such an awful woman.  The latter feeling was the stronger, and she decided to dissuade him from marrying her, although she knew how hard that would be.

The other affair, that of his parting with his land, she did not take so close to heart, but her husband was indignant at such folly, and demanded that she influence her brother to abandon the attempt.  Ignatius Nikiforovitch said that it was the height of inconsistency, foolhardiness and pride; that such an act could only be explained, if at all, by a desire to be odd, to have something to brag about, and to make people talk about one’s self.

“What sense is there in giving the land to the peasants and making them pay rent to themselves?” he said.  “If his mind was set on doing it, he could sell them the land through the bank.  There would be some sense in that.  Taking all in all, his act is very eccentric,” said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, already considering the necessity of a guardianship, and he demanded that his wife should seriously speak to her brother of this, his strange intention.

CHAPTER XX.

In the evening Nekhludoff went to his sister.  Ignatius Nikiforovitch was resting in another room, and Natalie Ivanovna alone met him.  She wore a tight-fitting black silk dress, with a knot of red ribbon, and her hair was done up according to the latest fashion.  She was evidently making herself look young for her husband.  Seeing her brother, she quickly rose from the divan, and, rustling with her silk skirt, she went out to meet him.  They kissed and, smiling, looked at each other.  There was an exchange of those mysterious, significant glances in which everything was truth; then followed an exchange of words in which that truth was lacking.  They had not met since the death of their mother.

“You have grown stout and young,” he said.

Her lips contracted with pleasure.

“And you have grown thin.”

“Well, how is Ignatius Nikiforovitch?” asked Nekhludoff.

“He is resting.  He has not slept all night.”

A great deal should have been said here, but their words said nothing, and their glances said that that which interested them most was left unsaid.