“When are you starting?” he asked.

“When are you starting?” he asked.

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“Ah, don’t talk to me about that going away; don’t talk about it. I won’t even hear it spoken of,” said the princess in just the capriciously playful tone in which she had talked to Ippolit at the soirée, a tone utterly incongruous in her own home circle, where Pierre was like one of the family. “This evening when I thought all these relations so precious to me must be broken off.…And then, you know, André?” She looked significantly at her husband. “I’m afraid! I’m afraid!” she whispered, twitching her shoulder. Her husband looked at her as though he were surprised to observe that there was some one in the room beside himself and Pierre, and with frigid courtesy he addressed an inquiry to his wife.

“What are you afraid of, Liza? I don’t understand,” he said.

“See what egoists all men are; they are all, all egoists! Of his own accord, for his own whim, for no reason whatever, he is deserting me, shutting me up alone in the country.”

“With my father and sister, remember,” said Prince Andrey quietly.

“It’s just the same as alone, without my friends.…And he doesn’t expect me to be afraid.” Her tone was querulous now, her upper lip was lifted, giving her face not a joyous expression, but a wild-animal look, like a squirrel. She paused as though feeling it indecorous to speak of her condition before Pierre, though the whole gist of the matter lay in that.

“I still don’t understand what you are afraid of,” Prince Andrey said deliberately, not taking his eyes off his wife. The princess flushed red, and waved her hands despairingly.

“No, André, I say you are so changed, so changed…”

“Your doctor’s orders were that you were to go to bed earlier,” said Prince Andrey. “It’s time you were asleep.”

The princess said nothing, and suddenly her short, downy lip began to quiver; Prince Andrey got up and walked about the room, shrugging his shoulders.

Pierre looked over his spectacles in na?ve wonder from him to the princess, and stirred uneasily as though he too meant to get up, but had changed his mind.

“What do I care if Monsieur Pierre is here,” the little princess said suddenly, her pretty face contorted into a tearful grimace; “I have long wanted to say to you, Andrey, why are you so changed to me? What have I done? You go away to the war, you don’t feel for me. Why is it?”

“Liza!” was all Prince Andrey said, but in that one word there was entreaty and menace, and, most of all, conviction that she would herself regret her words; but she went on hurriedly.

“You treat me as though I were ill, or a child. I see it all. You weren’t like this six months ago.” has spl � e ��s ��r ously to him. Annette and I were saying it would be quite easy to arrange it. What do you think?”

Pierre looked at Prince Andrey, and, noticing that his friend did not like this subject, made no reply.