“I am at your disposal,” she murmured.
Natásha knew that she ought to go away, but was unable to do so: something gripped her throat, and regardless of manners she stared straight at Prince Andréy with wide-open eyes.
“At once? This instant! … No, it can’t be!” she thought.
Again he glanced at her, and that glance convinced her that she was not mistaken. Yes, at once, that very instant, her fate would be decided.
“Go, Natásha! I will call you,” said the countess in a whisper.
Natásha glanced with frightened imploring eyes at Prince Andréy and at her mother and went out.
“I have come, Countess, to ask for your daughter’s hand,” said Prince Andréy.
The countess’ face flushed hotly, but she said nothing.
“Your offer …” she began at last sedately. He remained silent, looking into her eyes. “Your offer …” (she grew confused) “is agreeable to us, and I accept your offer. I am glad. And my husband … I hope … but it will depend on her. …”
“I will speak to her when I have your consent. … Do you give it to me?” said Prince Andréy.
“Yes,” replied the countess. She held out her hand to him, and with a mixed feeling of estrangement and tenderness pressed her lips to his forehead as he stooped to kiss her hand. She wished to love him as a son, but felt that to her he was a stranger and a terrifying man. “I am sure my husband will consent,” said the countess, “but your father …”