myself. It would be better if he spoke no language at all; he wouldn't
tell lies then. But of course, here he is, in the very nick of time,"
continued Marfa Timofeevna, looking down the street. "Here comes
your agreeable man, striding along. How spindle-shanked he is, to be
sure--just like a stork!"

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,