button on the wall. A servant, morose, with flowing side-whiskers and
in a gray apron, entered.

"Please send for a carriage."

"Yes, sir."

"And tell the Korchagins' maid that I thank them; I will try to call."

"Yes, sir."

"It is impolite, but I cannot write. But I will see her to-day,"
thought Nekhludoff, and started to dress himself.

When he emerged from the house a carriage with rubber tires awaited
him.

"You had scarcely left Prince Korchagin's house yesterday when I
called for you," said the driver, half-turning his stout, sun-burned
neck in the white collar of his shirt, "and the footman said that you
had just gone."

"Even the drivers know of my relations to the Korchagins," thought
Nekhludoff, and the unsolved question which continually occupied his
mind of late--whether or not he ought to marry Princess
Korchagin--again occurred to him, and, like most questions that he was
called upon to decide at that time, it remained unsolved.

He had many reasons for, and as many against, marriage. There was the
pleasure of domestic life, which made it possible to lead a moral