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"It is some letter of recommendation... what the devil do I want

it for!"

"Why 'What the devil'?" said Boris, picking it up and reading the

address. "This letter would be of great use to you."

"I want nothing, and I won't be anyone's adjutant."

"Why not?" inquired Boris.

"It's a lackey's job!"

"You are still the same dreamer, I see," remarked Boris, shaking

his head.

"And you're still the same diplomatist! But that's not the

point... Come, how are you?" asked Rostov.

"Well, as you see. So far everything's all right, but I confess I

should much like to be an adjutant and not remain at the front."

"Why?"

"Because when once a man starts on military service, he should

try to make as successful a career of it as possible."

"Oh, that's it!" said Rostov, evidently thinking of something

else.

He looked intently and inquiringly into his friend's eyes,

evidently trying in vain to find the answer to some question.

Old Gabriel brought in the wine.