“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.”

“He looked more robust,” said Marya Dmitrievna, dwelling on each syllable.  “I should have thought he had little enough to make him look robust.”

“Yes, indeed,” observed Gedeonovsky; “any other man in Fedor Ivanitch’s position would have hesitated to appear in society.”

“Why so, pray?” interposed Marfa Timofyevna.  “What nonsense are you talking!  The man’s come back to his home—­where would you have him go?  And has he been to blame, I should like to know!”

“The husband is always to blame, madam, I venture to assure you, when a wife misconducts herself.”