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.