“I want nothing, and I won’t be anyone’s adjutant.”
“Why not?” inquired Borís.
“It’s a lackey’s job!”
“You are still the same dreamer, I see,” remarked Borís, shaking his head.
“And you’re still the same diplomatist! But that’s not the point … Come, how are you?” asked Rostóv.
“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 Rostóv, 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 Gavríl brought in the wine.
“Shouldn’t we now send for Alphonse Kárlovich?” asked Borís. “He would