glance at his wife, who had turned pale and was staring fixedly at her son.
“And I tell you—Pyotr Kirílovich here will also tell you …”
“Nonsense, I tell you. Your mother’s milk has hardly dried on your lips and you want to go into the army! There, there, I tell you,” and the count moved to go out of the room, taking the papers, probably to reread them in his study before having a nap.
“Well, Pyotr Kirílovich, let’s go and have a smoke,” he said.
Pierre was agitated and undecided. Natásha’s unwontedly brilliant eyes, continually glancing at him with a more than cordial look, had reduced him to this condition.
“No, I think I’ll go home.”
“Home? Why, you meant to spend the evening with us. … You don’t often come nowadays as it is, and this girl of mine,” said the count good-naturedly, pointing to Natásha,