Natasha stretches out her sunburnt hand to take the flowers. The sheaf of blue cornflowers, spreading across her breast, almost hides her, she is so slender.
Again Boris addresses her cheerfully: “Well, is it heavy?”
Natasha laughs. Her face lights up with the joy of gratitude, and with a cheerful, childlike determination. “I will carry these, but no more!” she says.
“I want to gather as many as possible for you.” Boris’s voice is serious; “because you know we may not see each other for some time.” There is a quaver in his voice as he says this.
“Perhaps, never,” Natasha, growing pensive, replies.
Both faces become sad and careworn.
Boris, frowning, glances sideways, and asks: “Natasha, are you going with him?”
Natasha knows that Boris is inquiring about Mikhail Lvovich, who is now sending her on a dangerous business, and who has also promised to send Boris on some foolhardy errand. The brave are so often foolhardy.
“No, I am going alone,” Natasha replies, “he will only lead me later to the spot.”
Boris looks at Natasha with gloomy, envious eyes, and asks rather cautiously: “Are you frightened, Natasha?”