Tosay "tomorrow" andkeepupadignifiedtonewasnotdifficult, buttogohomealone, seehissisters, brother, mother, andfather, confessandaskformoneyhehadnorighttoaftergivinghiswordofhonor, wasterrible.
Athome, , afterreturningfromthetheater, , hewasenfoldedinthatpoeticatmosphereoflovewhichpervadedtheRostovhouseholdthatwinterand, nowafterDolokhov'sproposalandIogel'sball, , inthelight-bluedressestheyhadwornatthetheater, lookingprettyandconsciousofit, werestandingbytheclavichord, , waitingforthereturnofherhusbandandson, , withsparklingeyesandruffledhair, satattheclavichordstrikingchordswithhisshortfingers, hislegsthrownbackandhiseyesrollingashesang, withhissmall, husky, buttruevoice, someversescalled "Enchantress," whichhehadcomposed, andtowhichhewastryingtofitmusic:
Enchantress, say, tomyforsakenlyre
Whatmagicpoweristhisrecallsmestill?
Whatsparkhassetmyinmostsoulonfire,
Whatisthisblissthatmakesmyfingersthrill?
Hewassinginginpassionatetones, gazingwithhissparklingblack-agateeyesatthefrightenedandhappyNatasha.
"Splendid! Excellent!" exclaimedNatasha."Anotherverse," shesaid, withoutnoticingNicholas.
"Everything'sstillthesamewiththem," thoughtNicholas, glancingintothedrawingroom, wherehesawVeraandhismotherwiththeoldlady.
"Ah, andhere'sNicholas!" criedNatasha, runninguptohim.
"IsPapaathome?" heasked.
"Iamsogladyou'vecome!" saidNatasha, withoutansweringhim."Weareenjoyingourselves! VasiliDmitrichisstayingadaylongerformysake! Didyouknow?"
"No, Papaisnotbackyet," saidSonya.