Pod. (dressing before the glass). I almost think, though, that I ought to put on a white waistcoat.
Koch. Oh, nonsense! What does it matter?
Pod. (putting on his collar). Confound that washerwoman! How badly she’s starched my collar! It won’t stand up a bit, Stepàn! You tell the stupid woman that if she’s going to do her work that way, I shall find another washerwoman. I expect she spends her time philandering with sweethearts instead of ironing clothes.
Koch. There! there! man, make haste! What a dawdle you are!
Pod. All right—all right! (Puts on coat, and sits down.) Look here, Ilia Fòmich, do you know what? I think you’d better go alone.
Koch. What next! The man’s gone daft! I go? Why, which of us is going to get married—you or I?
Pod. The fact is, I don’t feel inclined for it to-day; let’s go to-morrow.
Koch. Now, have you got one single grain of sense? Now, are you anything in the world but a moon-calf? You get ready, and then, suddenly, don’t want to go! Now be so kind as to tell me, don’t you call yourself a pig and a camel after that?
Pod. Look here—what’s the use of bad language? I haven’t done you any harm.
Koch. You’re a booby, a perfect booby, any fellow will tell you that. I don’t care if you are an aulic counsellor—you’re nothing in the world but a fool. What do you suppose I’m taking all this trouble for? Only for your good. Don’t I see that you’ll let the prize slip through your fingers? And there you lie, you confounded old bachelor! Now just have the kindness to tell me, what do you call yourself? You’re a dummy, a milksop, a nincompoop, a—I’d tell you what you are if I could only find a civil word for it. You’re worse than any old woman!