The medico appeared at the door of the house. He glanced round and on seeing Vassiliev, said in alarm:
"Is that you? My God, it's simply impossible to go anywhere with Yegor. I can't understand a chap like that. He kicked up a row—can't you hear? Yegor," he called from the door. "Yegor!"
"I won't have you hitting women." The painter's shrill voice was audible again from upstairs.
Something heavy and bulky tumbled down the staircase. It was the painter coming head over heels. He had evidently been thrown out.
He lifted himself up from the ground, dusted his hat, and with an angry indignant face, shook his fist at the upstairs.
"Scoundrels! Butchers! Bloodsuckers! I won't have you hitting a weak, drunken woman. Ah, you...."
"Yegor ... Yegor!" the medico began to implore, "I give my word I'll never go out with you again. Upon my honour, I won't."
The painter gradually calmed, and the friends went home.
"To these sad shores unknowing"—the medico began—"An unknown power entices...."
"'Behold the mill,'" the painter sang with him after a pause, "'Now fallen into ruin.' How the snow is falling, most Holy Mother. Why did you go away, Grisha? You're a coward; you're only an old woman."