THERE was the rustle of a woman’s dress in the next room. Prince Andrey started up， as it were pulling himself together， and his face assumed the expression it had worn in Anna Pavlovna’s drawing-room. Pierre dropped his legs down off the sofa. The princess came in. She had changed her gown， and was wearing a house dress as fresh and elegant as the other had been. Prince Andrey got up and courteously set a chair for her.
“Why is it， I often wonder，” she began in French as always， while she hurriedly and fussily settled herself in the low chair， “why is it Annette never married？ How stupid you gentlemen all are not to have married her. You must excuse me， but you really have no sense about women. What an argumentative person you are， Monsieur Pierre！”
“I’m still arguing with your husband； I can’t make out why he wants to go to the war，” said Pierre， addressing the princess without any of the affectation so common in the attitude of a young man to a young woman.
The princess shivered. Clearly Pierre’s words touched a tender spot.
“Ah， that’s what I say，” she said. “I can’t understand， I simply can’t understand why men can’t get on without war. Why is it we women want nothing of the sort？ We don’t care for it. Come， you shall be the judge. I keep saying to him： here he is uncle’s adjutant， a most brilliant position. He’s so well known， so appreciated by every one. The other day at the Apraxins’ I heard a lady ask： ‘So that is the famous Prince André？ Upon my word！’ ” She laughed. “He’s asked everywhere. He could very easily be a flügel-adjutant. You know the Emperor has spoken very graciously 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.
“When are you starting？” he asked.
“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.”
“Liza， I beg you to be silent，” said Prince Andrey， still more expressively.
Pierre， who had been growing more and more agitated during this conversation， got up and went to the princess. He seemed unable to endure the sight of her tears， and was ready to weep himself.
“Please don’t distress yourself， princess. You only fancy that because …I assure you， I’ve felt so myself…because…through…oh， excuse me， an outsider has no business…Oh， don’t distress yourself…goodbye.”
Prince Andrey held his hand and stopped him.
“No， stay a little， Pierre. The princess is so good， she would not wish to deprive me of the pleasure of spending an evening with you.”
“No， he thinks of nothing but himself，” the princess declared， not attempting to check her tears of anger.
“Liza，” said Prince Andrey drily， raising his voice to a pitch that showed his patience was exhausted.
All at once the angry squirrel expression of the princess’s lovely little face changed to an attractive look of terror that awakened sympathy. She glanced from under her brows with lovely eyes at her husband， and her face wore the timorous， deprecating look of a dog when it faintly but rapidly wags its tail in penitence.
“Mon Dieu！ mon Dieu！” murmured the princess， and holding her gown with one hand， she went to her husband and kissed him on the forehead.
“Good-night， Liza，” said Prince Andrey， getting up and kissing her hand courteously， as though she were a stranger.
The friends were silent. Neither of them began to talk. Pierre looked at Prince Andrey； Prince Andrey rubbed his forehead with his small hand.