'Grigory Litvinov, a brick, a true Russian heart. I commend him to you,' cried Bambaev, conducting Litvinov up to a short man of the figure of a country gentleman, with an unbuttoned collar, in a short jacket, grey morning trousers and slippers, standing in the middle of a light, and very well-furnished room; 'and this,' he added, addressing himself to Litvinov, 'is he, the man himself, do you understand? Gubaryov, then, in a word.'
Litvinov stared with curiosity at 'the man himself.' He did not at first sight find in him anything out of the common. He saw before him a gentleman of respectable, somewhat dull exterior, with a broad forehead, large eyes, full lips, a big beard, and a thick neck, with a fixed gaze, bent sidelong and downwards. This gentleman simpered, and said, 'Mmm. . . . ah . . . very pleased, . . .' raised his hand to his own face, and at once turning his back on Litvinov, took a few paces upon the carpet,