“I will bring him to you directly, Monsieur Dessalles. Good night!” said Pierre, giving his hand to the Swiss tutor, and he turned to Nikólenka with a smile. “You and I haven’t seen anything of one another yet.⁠ ⁠… How like he is growing, Márya!” he added, addressing Countess Márya.

“Like my father?” asked the boy, flushing crimson and looking up at Pierre with bright, ecstatic eyes.

Pierre nodded, and went on with what he had been saying when the children had interrupted. Countess Márya sat down doing woolwork; Natásha did not take her eyes off her husband. Nikoláy and Denísov rose, asked for their pipes, smoked, went to fetch more tea from Sónya⁠—who sat weary but resolute at the samovar⁠—and questioned Pierre. The curly-headed, delicate boy sat with shining eyes unnoticed in a corner, starting every now and then and muttering something to himself, and evidently experiencing a new and powerful emotion as he turned his curly head, with his thin neck exposed by his turndown collar, toward the place where Pierre sat.