“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, “only brightens up when you’re here.”