“And how devoted he was to my poor husband!” observed Marya Dmitrievna; “even now he cannot speak of him without emotion.” “And no wonder! It was he who picked him out of the gutter,” muttered Marfa Timofyevna, and her knitting needles moved faster than ever. “He looks so meek and mild,” she began again, “with his grey head, but he no sooner opens his mouth than out comes a lie or a slander. And to think of his having the rank of a councillor! To be sure, though, he’s only a village priest’s son.” “Every one has faults, auntie; that is his weak point, no doubt. Sergei Petrovitch has had no education: of course he does not speak French, still, say what you like, he is an agreeable man.” “Yes, he is always ready to kiss your hands. He does not speak French--that’s no great loss. I am not over strong in the French lingo myself. It would be better if he could not speak at all; he would not tell lies then. But here he is--speak of the devil,” added Marfa Timofyevna looking into the street. “Here comes your agreeable man striding along. What a lanky creature he is, just like a stork!” Marya Dmitrievna began to arrange her curls. Marfa Timofyevna looked at her ironically. “What’s that, not a grey hair surely? You must speak to your Palashka, what can she be thinking about?” “Really, auntie, you are always so...” muttered Marya Dmitrievna in a tone of vexation, drumming on the arm of her chair with her finger-tips. “Sergei Petrovitch Gedeonovsky!” was announced in a shrill piping voice, by a rosy-cheeked little page who made his appearance at the door. Chapter II A tall man entered, wearing a tidy overcoat, rather short trousers, grey doeskin gloves, and two neckties--a black one outside, and a white one below it. There was an air of decorum and propriety in everything about him, from his prosperous countenance and smoothly brushed hair, to his low-heeled, noiseless boots. He bowed first to the lady of the house, then to Marfa Timofyevna, and slowly drawing off his gloves, he advanced to take Marya Dmitrievna’s hand. After kissing it respectfully twice he seated himself with deliberation in an arm-chair, and rubbing the very tips of his fingers together, he observed with a smile-- “And is Elisaveta Mihalovna quite well?” “Yes,” replied Marya Dmitrievna, “she’s in the garden.” “And Elena Mihalovna?” “Lenotchka’s in the garden too. Is there no news?” “There is indeed!” replied the visitor, slowly blinking his eyes and pursing up his mouth. “Hm!... yes, indeed, there is a piece of news, and very surprising news too. Lavretsky--Fedor Ivanitch is here.” “Fedya!” cried Marfa Timofyevna. “Are you sure you are not romancing, my good man?” “No, indeed, I saw him myself.” “Well, that does not prove it.” “Fedor Ivanitch looked much more robust,” continued Gedeonovsky, affecting not to have heard Marfa Timofyevna’s last remark. “Fedor Ivanitch is broader and has quite a colour.”