'Very good,' answered the doctor, with an expression which seemed to
try and say, 'Why talk so much? I'd have come anyway,' and he followed
me.

'Tell me, please,' I began, as soon as he had dropped into a chair, 'is
my friend's condition serious? What do you think?'

'Yes,' answered the fat man, tranquilly.

'And...is it very serious?'

'Yes, it's serious.'

'So that he may...even die?'

'He may.'

I confess I looked almost with hatred at the fat man.

'Good heavens!' I began; 'we must take some steps, call a consultation,
or something. You know we can't...Mercy on us!'

'A consultation?--quite possible; why not? It's possible. Call in Ivan
Efremitch....'

The doctor spoke with difficulty, and sighed continually. His stomach
heaved perceptibly when he spoke, as it were emphasising each word.

'Who is Ivan Efremitch?'