And Rogozhinsky began seriously thinking about putting Nekhludoff under guardianship, and demanded of his wife that she should speak seriously to her brother about his curious intention.

CHAPTER XXXII.

NEKHLUDOFF’S ANARCHISM.

As soon as Nekhludoff returned that evening and saw his sister’s note on the table he started to go and see her.  He found Nathalie alone, her husband having gone to take a rest in the next room.  She wore a tightly-fitting black silk dress, with a red bow in front.  Her black hair was crimped and arranged according to the latest fashion.

The pains she took to appear young, for the sake of her husband, whose equal she was in years, were very obvious.

When she saw her brother she jumped up and hurried towards him, with her silk dress rustling.  They kissed, and looked smilingly at each other.  There passed between them that mysterious exchange of looks, full of meaning, in which all was true, and which cannot be expressed in words.  Then came words which were not true.  They had not met since their mother’s death.

“You have grown stouter and younger,” he said, and her lips puckered up with pleasure.

“And you have grown thinner.”

“Well, and how is your husband?” Nekhludoff asked.

“He is taking a rest; he did not sleep all night.”  There was much to say, but it was not said in words; only their looks expressed what their words failed to say.

“I went to see you.”

“Yes, I know.  I moved because the house is too big for me.  I was lonely there, and dull.  I want nothing of all that is there, so that you had better take it all—­the furniture, I mean, and things.”

“Yes, Agraphena Petrovna told me.  I went there.  Thanks, very much.  But—­”

At this moment the hotel waiter brought in a silver tea-set.  While he set the table they were silent.  Then Nathalie sat down at the table and made the tea, still in silence.  Nekhludoff also said nothing.

At last Nathalie began resolutely.  “Well, Dmitri, I know all about it.”  And she looked at him.

“What of that? l am glad you know.”

“How can you hope to reform her after the life she has led?” she asked.

He sat quite straight on a small chair, and listened attentively, trying to understand her and to answer rightly.  The state of mind called forth in him by his last interview with Maslova still filled his soul with quiet joy and good will to all men.

“It is not her but myself I wish to reform,” he replied.

Nathalie sighed.

“There are other means besides marriage to do that.”

“But I think it is the best.  Besides, it leads me into that world in which I can be of use.”

“I cannot believe you will be happy,” said Nathalie.

“It’s not my happiness that is the point.”

“Of course, but if she has a heart she cannot be happy—­cannot even wish it.”