When Lavretsky reached home, he was met at the door of the drawing-room by a tall, thin man, in a thread-bare blue coat, with a wrinkled, but lively face, with disheveled grey whiskers, a long straight nose, and small fiery eyes.

This was Mihalevitch, who had been his friend at the university.

Lavretsky did not at first recognise him, but embraced him warmly directly he told his name.
They had not met since their Moscow days.

Torrents of exclamations and questions followed; long-buried recollections were brought to light.
Hurriedly smoking pipe after pipe, tossing off tea at a gulp, and gesticulating with his long hands, Mihalevitch related his adventures to Lavretsky; there was nothing very inspiriting in them, he could not boast of success in his undertakings--but he was constantly laughing a hoarse, nervous laugh.

A month previously he had received a position in the private counting-house of a spirit-tax contractor, two hundred and fifty miles from the town of O-----, and hearing of Lavretsky returned from abroad he had turned out of his way so as to see his old friend.
Mihalevitch and talked as impetuously as in his youth; made as much noise and was as effervescent as of old.