Meanwhile the younger generation:
Boris, the officer, Anna Mikhaylovna's son;
Nicholas, the undergraduate,
the count's eldest son; Sonya,
the count's fifteen-year-old niece, and little Petya,
his youngest boy,
had all settled down
in the drawing room and were
obviously trying to restrain
within the bounds of decorum the
excitement and mirth that shone in all their faces.
Evidently in the back rooms,
from which they had dashed out so impetuously,
the conversation had been more amusing
than the drawing-room talk of
society scandals, the weather,
and Countess Apraksina.
Now and then they glanced at one another,
hardly able to suppress their laughter.
The two young men, the student and the officer,
friends from childhood,
were of the same age and both handsome fellows,
though not alike. Boris was tall and fair,
and his calm and handsome face had regular,
delicate features.
Nicholas was short with curly hair and
an open expression.
Dark hairs were already showing on his upper lip,
and his whole face expressed impetuosity and enthusiasm.
Nicholas blushed when he entered the drawing room.
He evidently tried to find something to say, but failed.
Boris on the contrary at once found his footing,
and related quietly and humorously how he had know that
doll Mimi when she was still quite a young lady,
before her nose wasm broken;
how she had aged during the five years he had known her,
and how her head had cracked right across the skull.
Having said this he glanced at Natasha.
She turned away from him and glanced at her
younger brother,
who was screwing up his eyes and shaking with
suppressed laughter,
and unable to control herself any longer,
she jumped up and rushed from the room as fast as
her nimble little feet would carry her.
Boris did not laugh.