In the evening Nekhludoff went to his sister. Ignatius Nikiforovitch was resting in another room, and Natalie Ivanovna alone met him. She wore a tight-fitting black silk dress, with a knot of red ribbon, and her hair was done up according to the latest fashion. She was evidently making herself look young for her husband. Seeing her brother, she quickly rose from the divan, and, rustling with her silk skirt, she went out to meet him. They kissed and, smiling, looked at each other. There was an exchange of those mysterious, significant glances in which everything was truth; then followed an exchange of words in which that truth was lacking. They had not met since the death of their mother.
"You have grown stout and young," he said.
Her lips contracted with pleasure.
"And you have grown thin."
"Well, how is Ignatius Nikiforovitch?" asked Nekhludoff.
"He is resting. He has not slept all night."
A great deal should have been said here, but their words said nothing, and their glances said that that which interested them most was left unsaid.
"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——"