_Koch._ Tut, tut, tut! I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself. No, my friend, I see I must talk to you seriously. I’ll be quite frank with you, like a father with a son. Now just look at yourself—look at yourself attentively and seriously, just as you’re looking at me now—what do you think of yourself? What are you like? You’re no better than a log; you’re a mere cypher. Tell me what you live for? Now just look in the glass and tell me what you see—nothing but a very stupid face. Well now, suppose that you’ve got children round you, not just two or three—you know, but a whole half-dozen—and every one as like you as two peas. Here you are alone, an aulic counsellor, or a head of a department, or director of some kind—what do you call yourself? But now just suppose yourself surrounded with little directorkins, and tiny rascals and small fry generally; and there they hold out their chubby little fists and tug at your whiskers; and you’ll play doggie with them: Bow—wow—wow! Now, can you imagine anything more delightful? _Pod._ Ye-e-s, only you know they are such mischievous little monkeys; they’ll spoil everything, and pull all my papers about. _Koch._ Oh! that doesn’t matter! But just think; they’ll all be like you—that’s the beauty of it. _Pod._ After all, it really is a deucedly funny notion—a little white puff-ball of a thing—no bigger than a puppy-dog—and yet it’s like you! _Koch._ Of course it’s funny, tremendously funny; there, make haste and come along! _Pod._ All right; I don’t mind. _Koch._ Hi! Stepàn! Come and help your master dress. (_Enter_ STEPÀN.) _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.