Natásha’s face, leaning out of the window, beamed with quizzical kindliness.
“Peter Kirílovich, come here! We have recognized you! This is wonderful!” she cried, holding out her hand to him. “What are you doing? Why are you like this?”
Pierre took her outstretched hand and kissed it awkwardly as he walked along beside her while the coach still moved on.
“What is the matter, Count?” asked the countess in a surprised and commiserating tone.
“What? What? Why? Don’t ask me,” said Pierre, and looked round at Natásha whose radiant, happy expression—of which he was conscious without looking at her—filled him with enchantment.
“Are you remaining in Moscow, then?”
Pierre hesitated.
“In Moscow?” he said in a questioning tone. “Yes, in Moscow. Good-by!”
“Ah, if only I were a man! I’d certainly stay with you. How splendid!” said Natásha. “Mamma, if you’ll let me, I’ll stay!”
Pierre glanced absently at Natásha and was about to say something, but the countess interrupted him.