“I have been at your lodging.”

“Yes, I know it.  I have moved from the house.  I am so lonely and weary.  I do not need any of those things, so you take them—­the furniture—­everything.”

“Yes, Agrippina Petrovna told me.  I have been there.  I thank you very much.  But——­”

At that moment the servant brought in a silver tea service.  Natalie Ivanovna busied herself with making the tea.  Nekhludoff was silent.

“Well, Dimitri, I know everything,” Natalie said, resolutely, glancing at him.

“I am very glad that you know.”

“Do you think it possible to reform her after such a life?”

He was sitting erect on a small chair, attentively listening to her, prepared to answer satisfactorily her every question.  He was still in that frame of mind which, after his last meeting with Maslova, filled his soul with tranquil happiness and love for all mankind.

“It is not her that I intend to reform, but myself,” he answered.

Natalie Ivanovna sighed.

“There are other means besides marriage.”

“And I think that that is the best.  Besides, that will bring me into that world in which I can be useful.”

“I do not think,” said Natalie Ivanovna, “that you could be happy.”

“It is not a question of my happiness.”

“Of course; but if she possesses a heart, she cannot be happy—­she cannot even desire it.”

“She does not.”

“I understand, but life—­demands something different.”

“Life only demands that we do what is right,” said Nekhludoff, looking at her face, still beautiful, although covered with fine wrinkles around the eyes and mouth.

“Poor dear!  How she has changed!” thought Nekhludoff, recalling Natalie as she had been before her marriage, and a tender feeling, woven of countless recollections of their childhood, rose in his breast toward her.

At that moment Ignatius Nikiforovitch, as usual holding his head high and projecting his broad chest, entered the room, with shining eye-glasses, bald head and black beard.

“How do you do?  How do you do?” he greeted Nekhludoff, unnaturally accentuating his words.

They pressed each other’s hand, and Ignatius Nikiforovitch lowered himself into an arm-chair.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“No, I do not conceal anything I say or do from anybody.”

As soon as Nekhludoff saw that face, those hairy hands and heard that patronizing tone, his gentle disposition immediately disappeared.

“Yes, we have been speaking about his intention,” said Natalie Ivanovna.  “Shall I pour out some tea for you?” she added, taking the tea-pot.

“Yes, if you please.  What intention do you refer to?”

“My intention of going to Siberia with that party of convicts, among whom there is a woman I have wronged,” said Nekhludoff.

“I heard that you intended more than that.”