Sonya was finishing dressing and so was the countess, but Natasha, who had bustled about helping them all, was behindhand.

She was still sitting before a looking-glass with a dressing jacket thrown over her slender shoulders.

Sonya stood ready dressed in the middle of the room and, pressing the head of a pin till it hurt her dainty finger, was fixing on a last ribbon that squeaked as the pin went through it.

"That's not the way, that's not the way, Sonya!" cried Natasha turning her head and clutching with both hands at her hair which the maid who was dressing it had not time to release.

" That bow is not right.