Abogin staggered back from Kirilov and stared at him in amazement.

"Why did you bring me here?" the doctor went on, his beard quivering.
"If you are so puffed up with good living that you go and get married
and then act a farce like this, how do I come in? What have I to
do with your love affairs? Leave me in peace! Go on squeezing money
out of the poor in your gentlemanly way. Make a display of humane
ideas, play (the doctor looked sideways at the violoncello case)
play the bassoon and the trombone, grow as fat as capons, but don't
dare to insult personal dignity! If you cannot respect it, you might
at least spare it your attention!"

"Excuse me, what does all this mean?" Abogin asked, flushing red.

"It means that it's base and low to play with people like this! I
am a doctor; you look upon doctors and people generally who work
and don't stink of perfume and prostitution as your menials and
_mauvais ton_; well, you may look upon them so, but no one has given
you the right to treat a man who is suffering as a stage property!"

"How dare you say that to me!" Abogin said quietly, and his face
began working again, and this time unmistakably from anger.

"No, how dared you, knowing of my sorrow, bring me here to listen
to these vulgarities!" shouted the doctor, and he again banged on
the table with his fist. "Who has given you the right to make a
mockery of another man's sorrow?"

"You have taken leave of your senses," shouted Abogin. "It is
ungenerous. I am intensely unhappy myself and . . . and . . ."