"Well, what have I come for, Sir Prophet?" asked the doctor, summoning all his good-humor to his aid.
"Money; money for my nephew."
"You are but half a prophet; I want a kind heart too."
"But money, money is the main point. Let me tell you at the start that I am not one of those who spend their tenderness over a drunkard by the roadside. On the contrary, if the fellow has a broken leg, he has no one but himself to thank for it. I speak thus freely to you because you are one of the few men whom I respect."
"Thank you for the compliment. An honest physician, however, must heal the diseases that are of a man's own making as well as those he could not prevent."
"You are a physician, and you are sick too, like our whole district,--like our whole race in these days."
The doctor expressed surprise at the new light Petrovitsch thus threw upon his character, revealing principle and not a love of ease as the groundwork of his misanthropy.
"Can you sit an hour with me? To-day is my seventieth birthday."
"I congratulate you."
"Thanks."