having their explanation, the mother and daughter were having one not less important. Natásha came running to her mother, quite excited.
“Mamma! … Mamma! … He has made me …”
“Made what?”
“Made, made me an offer, Mamma! Mamma!” she exclaimed.
The countess did not believe her ears. Denísov had proposed. To whom? To this chit of a girl, Natásha, who not so long ago was playing with dolls and who was still having lessons.
“Don’t, Natásha! What nonsense!” she said, hoping it was a joke.
“Nonsense, indeed! I am telling you the fact,” said Natásha indignantly. “I come to ask you what to do, and you call it ‘nonsense!’ ”
The countess shrugged her shoulders.
“If it is true that Monsieur Denísov has made you a proposal, tell him he is a fool, that’s all!”
“No, he’s not