Maria Dmitrievna arranged her curls.  Marfa Timofeevna looked at her with a quiet smile.

“Isn’t that a grey hair I see, my dear?  You should scold Pelagia.  Where can her eyes be?”

“That’s just like you, aunt,” muttered Maria Dmitrievna, in a tone of vexation, and thrumming with her fingers on the arm of her chair.

“Sergius Petrovich Gedeonovsky!” shrilly announced a rosy-cheeked little Cossack,[A] who suddenly appeared at the door.

[Footnote A:  A page attired in a sort of Cossack dress.]

II.

A tall man came into the room, wearing a good enough coat, rather short trousers, thick grey gloves, and two cravats—­a black one outside, a white one underneath.  Every thing belonging to him was suggestive of propriety and decorum, from his well-proportioned face, with locks carefully smoothed down over the temples, to his heelless and never-creaking boots.  He bowed first to the mistress of the house, then to Marfa Timofeevna, and afterwards, having slowly taken off his gloves, he approached Maria Dmitrievna and respectfully kissed her hand twice.  After that he leisurely subsided into an easy-chair, and asked, as he smilingly rubbed together the tips of his fingers—­

“Is Elizaveta quite well?”

“Yes,” replied Maria Dmitrievna, “she is in the garden.”

“And Elena Mikhailovna?”

“Lenochka is in the garden also.  Have you any news?”

“Rather!” replied the visitor, slowly screwing up his eyes, and protruding his lips.  “Hm! here is a piece of news, if you please, and a very startling one, too.  Fedor Ivanovich Lavretsky has arrived.”

“Fedia!” exclaimed Marfa Timofeevna.  “You’re inventing, are you not?”

“Not at all.  I have seen him with my own eyes.”

“That doesn’t prove any thing.”

“He’s grown much more robust,” continued Gedeonovsky, looking as if he had not heard Marfa Timofeevna’s remark; “his shoulders have broadened, and his cheeks are quite rosy.”

“Grown more robust,” slowly repeated Maria Dmitrievna.  “One would think he hadn’t met with much to make him robust.”

“That is true indeed,” said Gedeonovsky.  “Any one else, in his place, would have scrupled to show himself in the world.”

“And why, I should like to know?” broke in Marfa Timofeevna.  “What nonsense you are talking!  A man comes back to his home.  Where else would you have him betake himself?  And, pray, in what has he been to blame?”

“A husband is always to blame, madam, if you will allow me to say so, when his wife behaves ill.”

“You only say that, batyushka,[A] because you have never been married.”

[Footnote A:  Father.]

Gedeonovsky’s only reply was a forced smile.  For a short time he remained silent, but presently he said, “May I be allowed to be so inquisitive as to ask for whom this pretty scarf is intended?”