and high boots and a batiste shirt that he had evidently only just put on, standing in that room, and his valet was buttoning on to the back of his breeches a new pair of handsome silk-embroidered braces that, for some reason, attracted Rostóv’s attention. This man was speaking to someone in the adjoining room.
“A good figure and in her first bloom,” he was saying, but on seeing Rostóv, he stopped short and frowned.
“What is it? A petition?”
“What is it?” asked the person in the other room.
“Another petitioner,” answered the man with the braces.
“Tell him to come later. He’ll be coming out directly, we must go.”
“Later … later! Tomorrow. It’s too late …”
Rostóv turned and was about to go, but the man in the braces stopped him.
“Whom have you come from? Who are you?”
“I