“Just so, just so,” repeated the countess, and shaking all over, she went off into a good humored, unexpected, elderly laugh.

“Don’t laugh, stop!” cried Natásha. “You’re shaking the whole bed! You’re awfully like me, just such another giggler.⁠ ⁠… Wait⁠ ⁠…” and she seized the countess’ hands and kissed a knuckle of the little finger, saying, “June,” and continued, kissing, “July, August,” on the other hand. “But, Mamma, is he very much in love? What do you think? Was anybody ever so much in love with you? And he’s very nice, very, very nice. Only not quite my taste⁠—he is so narrow, like the dining-room clock.⁠ ⁠… Don’t you understand? Narrow, you know⁠—gray, light gray⁠ ⁠…”

“What rubbish you’re talking!” said the countess.

Natásha continued: “Don’t you really understand? Nikólenka would understand.⁠ ⁠… Bezúkhov, now, is blue, dark-blue and red, and he is square.”

“You flirt with him too,” said the countess, laughing.