on Sundays.

Pierre came early so as to find them alone.

He had grown so stout this year that he would have been abnormal had he
not been so tall, so broad of limb, and so strong that he carried his
bulk with evident ease.

He went up the stairs, puffing and muttering something. His coachman did
not even ask whether he was to wait. He knew that when his master was
at the Rostovs' he stayed till midnight. The Rostovs' footman rushed
eagerly forward to help him off with his cloak and take his hat and
stick. Pierre, from club habit, always left both hat and stick in the
anteroom.

The first person he saw in the house was Natasha. Even before he saw
her, while taking off his cloak, he heard her. She was practicing solfa
exercises in the music room. He knew that she had not sung since her
illness, and so the sound of her voice surprised and delighted him. He
opened the door softly and saw her, in the lilac dress she had worn at
church, walking about the room singing. She had her back to him when he
opened the door, but when, turning quickly, she saw his broad, surprised
face, she blushed and came rapidly up to him.

"I want to try to sing again," she said, adding as if by way of excuse,
"it is, at least, something to do."

"That's capital!"

"How glad I am you've come! I am so happy today," she said, with the old
animation Pierre had not seen in her for along time. "You know Nicholas
has received a St. George's Cross? I am so proud of him."

"Oh yes, I sent that announcement. But I don't want to interrupt you,"
he added, and was about to go to the drawing room.

Natasha stopped him.

"Count, is it wrong of me to sing?" she said blushing, and fixing her
eyes inquiringly on him.

"No... Why should it be? On the contrary... But why do you ask me?"

"I don't know myself," Natasha answered quickly, "but I should not like
to do anything you disapproved of. I believe in you completely. You
don't know how important you are to me, how much you've done for me...."
She spoke rapidly and did not notice how Pierre flushed at her words. "I
saw in that same army order that he, Bolkonski" (she whispered the name
hastily), "is in Russia, and in the army again. What do you think?"--she
was speaking hurriedly, evidently afraid her strength might fail
her--"Will he ever forgive me? Will he not always have a bitter feeling
toward me? What do you think? What do you think?"

"I think..." Pierre replied, "that he has nothing to for