than we, papa. Much younger, indeed,” she said, again bursting out into a laugh.
“Indeed!” said the old man, and his austere wrinkles formed themselves into a gentle, and yet contemptuous, smile.
Natálya Nikoláevna bent away from the samovar which prevented her seeing her husband.
“Sónya is right. You are still sixteen years old, Pierre. Serézha is younger in feelings, but you are younger in soul. I can foresee what he will do, but you will astound me yet.”
Whether he recognized the justice of this remark, or was flattered by it, he did not know what reply to make, and only smoked in silence, drank his tea, and beamed with his eyes. But Serézha, with characteristic egoism of youth, interested in what was said about him, entered into the conversation and affirmed that he was really old, that his arrival in Moscow and the new life, which was opening before him, did not gladden him in the least, and that he calmly reflected on the future and looked forward toward it.