The lad looked down and seemed now for the first time to notice what he had done to the things on the table. He flushed and went up to Nikoláy.
“Uncle, forgive me, I did that … unintentionally,” he said, pointing to the broken sealing wax and pens.
Nikoláy started angrily.
“All right, all right,” he said, throwing the bits under the table.
And evidently suppressing his vexation with difficulty, he turned away from the boy.
“You ought not to have been here at all,” he said.
XV
The conversation at supper was not about politics or societies, but turned on the subject Nikoláy liked best—recollections of 1812. Denísov started these and Pierre was particularly agreeable and amusing about them. The family separated on the most friendly terms.
After supper Nikoláy, having undressed in his study and given instructions to the steward who had been waiting for him, went to the bedroom in his dressing gown, where he found his wife still at her table, writing.
“What are you writing, Márya?” Nikoláy asked.
Countess Márya blushed. She was afraid that what she was writing would not be understood or approved by her husband.
She had wanted to conceal what she was writing from him, but at the same time was glad he had surprised her at it and that she would now have to tell him.