II
There entered a man of lofty stature, in a neat coat, short trousers, grey chamois-skin gloves, and two neckties—one black, on top, and the other white, underneath. Everything about him exhaled decorum and propriety, beginning with his good-looking face and smoothly brushed temple-curls, and ending with his boots, which had neither heels nor squeak. He bowed first to the mistress of the house, then to Márfa Timoféevna, and slowly drawing off his gloves, took Márya Dmítrievna's hand. After kissing it twice in succession, with respect, he seated himself, without haste, in an arm-chair, and said with a smile, as he rubbed the very tips of his fingers:
"And is Elizavéta Mikhaílovna well?"
"Yes,"—replied Márya Dmítrievna,—"she is in the garden."
"And Eléna Mikhaílovna?"
"Lyénotchka is in the garden also. Is there anything new?"
"How could there fail to be, ma'am, how could there fail to be,"—returned the visitor, slowly blinking his eyes, and protruding his lips. "Hm! ... now, here's a bit of news, if you please, and a very astounding bit: Lavrétzky, Feódor Ivánitch, has arrived."
"Fédya?"—exclaimed Márfa Timoféevna.—"But come now, my father, art not thou inventing that?"
"Not in the least, ma'am, I saw him myself."