“I don’t care for any one, I don’t love any one but him. How dare you say he’s dishonourable! Don’t you know that I love him?” cried Natasha. “Sonya, go away; I don’t want to quarrel with you; go away, for God’s sake, go away; you see how wretched I am,” cried Natasha angrily, in a voice of repressed irritation and despair. Sonya burst into sobs and ran out of the room.

Natasha went to the table, and without a moment’s reflection wrote that answer to Princess Marya, which she had been unable to write all the morning. In her letter she told Princess Marya briefly that all misunderstandings between them were at an end, as taking advantage of the generosity of Prince Andrey, who had at parting given her full liberty, she begged her to forget everything and forgive if she had been in fault in any way, but she could not be his wife. It all seemed to her so easy, so simple, and so clear at that moment.

The Rostovs were to return to the country on Friday, but on Wednesday the count went with the intending purchaser to his estate near Moscow.

On the day the count left, Sonya and Natasha were invited to a big dinner-party at Julie Karagin’s, and Marya Dmitryevna took them. At that dinner Natasha met Anatole again, and Sonya noticed that Natasha said something to him, trying not to be overheard, and was all through the dinner more excited than before. When they got home, Natasha was the first to enter upon the conversation with Sonya that her friend was expecting.

“Well, Sonya, you said all sorts of silly things about him,” Natasha began in a meek voice, the voice in which children speak when they want to be praised for being good. “I have had it all out with him to- day.”

“Well, what did he say? Well? Come, what did he say? Natasha, I’m so glad you’re not angry with me. Tell me everything, all the truth. What did he say?”

Natasha sank into thought.

“O Sonya, if you knew him as I do! He said … He asked me what promise I had given Bolkonsky. He was so glad that I was free to refuse him.”

Sonya sighed dejectedly.

“But you haven’t refused Bolkonsky, have you?” she said.

“Oh, perhaps I have refused him! Perhaps it’s all at an end with Bolkonsky. Why do you think so ill of me?”

“I don’t think anything, only I don’t understand this.…”

“Wait a little, Sonya, you will understand it all. You will see the sort of man he is. Don’t think ill of me, or of him.”

“I don’t think ill of any one; I like every one and am sorry for every one. But what am I to do?”

Sonya would not let herself be won over by the affectionate tone Natasha took with her. The softer and the more ingratiating Natasha’s face became, the more serious and stern became the face of Sonya.

“Natasha,” she said, “you asked me not to speak to you, and I haven’t spoken; now you have begun yourself. Natasha, I don’t trust him. Why this secrecy?”

“Again, again!” interrupted Natasha.

“Natasha, I am afraid for you.”