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At the steps there stood a trap tightly covered with iron and

leather, with a sleek horse tightly harnessed with broad

collar-straps. In the trap sat the chubby, tightly belted clerk

who served Ryabinin as coachman. Ryabinin himself was already in

the house, and met the friends in the hall. Ryabinin was a tall,

thinnish, middle-aged man, with mustache and a projecting

clean-shaven chin, and prominent muddy-looking eyes. He was

dressed in a long-skirted blue coat, with buttons below the waist

at the back, and wore high boots wrinkled over the ankles and

straight over the calf, with big galoshes drawn over them. He

rubbed his face with his handkerchief, and wrapping round him his

coat, which sat extremely well as it was, he greeted them with a

smile, holding out his hand to Stepan Arkadyevitch, as though he

wanted to catch something.

"So here you are," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, giving him his hand.

"That's capital."