Natásha began putting on the dress.
“In a minute! In a minute! Don’t come in, Papa!” she cried to her father as he opened the door—speaking from under the filmy skirt which still covered her whole face.
Sónya slammed the door to. A minute later they let the count in. He was wearing a blue swallowtail coat, shoes and stockings, and was perfumed and his hair pomaded.
“Oh, Papa! how nice you look! Charming!” cried Natásha, as she stood in the middle of the room smoothing out the folds of the gauze.
“If you please, Miss! allow me,” said the maid, who on her knees was pulling the skirt straight and shifting the pins from one side of her mouth to the other with her tongue.
“Say what you like,” exclaimed Sónya, in a despairing voice as she looked at Natásha, “say what you like, it’s still too long.”
Natásha stepped back to look at herself in the pier glass. The dress was too long.
“Really, madam, it is not at all too long,” said Mávrusha, crawling on her knees after her young lady.
“Well, if it’s too long we’ll tack it up … we’ll tack it up in one minute,” said the resolute Dunyásha taking a needle that was stuck on the front of her little shawl and, still kneeling on the floor, set to work once more.
At that moment, with soft steps, the countess came in shyly, in her cap and velvet gown.
“Oo-oo, my beauty!” exclaimed the count, “she looks better than any of you!”