"Simion Petrovitch Kollomietzev is here. Shall I show him in?

"Certainly. And tell Mariana Vikentievna to come to the drawing
room.''

Valentina Mihailovna threw the "Revue des Deux Mondes" on the
table, raised her eyes upwards as if thinking--a pose which
suited her extremely.

From the languid, though free and easy, way in which Simion
Petrovitch Kollomietzev, a young man of thirty-two, entered the
room; from the way in which he brightened suddenly, bowed
slightly to one side, and drew himself up again gracefully; from
the manner in which he spoke, not too harshly, nor too gently;
from the respectful way in which he kissed Valentina Mihailovna's
hand, one could see that the new-comer was not a mere provincial,
an ordinary rich country neighbour, but a St. Petersburg grandee
of the highest society. He was dressed in the latest English
fashion. A corner of the coloured border of his white cambric
pocket handkerchief peeped out of the breast pocket of his tweed
coat, a monocle dangled on a wide black ribbon, the pale tint of
his suede gloves matched his grey checked trousers. He was clean
shaven, and his hair was closely cropped. His features were
somewhat effeminate, with his large eyes, set close together, his
small flat nose, full red lips, betokening the amiable
disposition of a well-bred nobleman. He was effusion itself, but
very easily turned spiteful, and even vulgar, when any one dared
to annoy him, or to upset his religious, conservative, or
patriotic principles. Then he became merciless. All his elegance