Márya had last seen him. Then he had been a brisk, cheerful, self-assured old man; now he seemed a pitiful, bewildered person. While talking to Princess Márya he continually looked round as if asking everyone whether he was doing the right thing. After the destruction of Moscow and of his property, thrown out of his accustomed groove he seemed to have lost the sense of his own significance and to feel that there was no longer a place for him in life.
In spite of her one desire to see her brother as soon as possible, and her vexation that at the moment when all she wanted was to see him they should be trying to entertain her and pretending to admire her nephew, the princess noticed all that was going on around her and felt the necessity of submitting, for a time, to this new order of things which she had entered. She knew it to be necessary, and though it was hard for her she was not vexed with these people.
“This is my niece,” said the count, introducing Sónya—“You don’t know her, Princess?”
Princess Márya turned to Sónya and, trying to stifle the hostile feeling that arose in her toward the girl, she kissed her. But she felt oppressed by the fact that the mood of everyone around her was so far from what was in her own heart.
“Where is he?” she asked again, addressing them all.
“He is downstairs. Natásha is with him,” answered Sónya, flushing. “We have sent to ask. I think you must be tired, Princess.”
Tears of vexation showed themselves in Princess Márya’s eyes. She turned away and was about to ask the countess again how to go