“Why are you incessantly hanging about here, young man?” he said to me one day, when we were left alone together in the Zasyekins’ drawing-room. (The young princess had not come home from a walk, and the shrill voice of the old princess could be heard within; she was scolding the maid.) “You ought to be studying, working—while you’re young—and what are you doing?” “You can’t tell whether I work at home,” I retorted with some haughtiness, but also with some hesitation. “A great deal of work you do! that’s not what you’re thinking about! Well, I won’t find fault with that … at your age that’s in the natural order of things. But you’ve been awfully unlucky in your choice. Don’t you see what this house is?” “I don’t understand you,” I observed. “You don’t understand? so much the worse for you. I regard it as a duty to warn you. Old bachelors, like me, can come here, what harm can it do us! we’re tough, nothing can hurt us, what harm can it do us; but your skin’s tender yet—this air is bad for you—believe me, you may get harm from it.” “How so?” “Why, are you well now? Are you in a normal condition? Is what you’re feeling—beneficial to you—good for you?” “Why, what am I feeling?” I said, while in my heart I knew the doctor was right. “Ah, young man, young man,” the doctor went on with an intonation that suggested that something highly insulting to me was contained in these two words, “what’s the use of your prevaricating, when, thank God, what’s in your heart is in your face, so far? But there, what’s the use of talking? I shouldn’t come here myself, if … (the doctor compressed his lips) … if I weren’t such a queer fellow. Only this is what surprises me; how it is, you, with your intelligence, don’t see what is going on around you?” “And what is going on?” I put in, all on the alert. The doctor looked at me with a sort of ironical compassion. “Nice of me!” he said as though to himself, “as if he need know anything of it. In fact, I tell you again,” he added, raising his voice, “the atmosphere here is not fit for you. You like being here, but what of that! it’s nice and sweet-smelling in a greenhouse—but there’s no living in it. Yes! do as I tell you, and go back to your Keidanov.” The old princess came in, and began complaining to the doctor of her toothache. Then Zinaïda appeared. “Come,” said the old princess, “you must scold her, doctor. She’s drinking iced water all day long; is that good for her, pray, with her delicate chest?” “Why do you do that?” asked Lushin. “Why, what effect could it have?” “What effect? You might get a chill and die.” “Truly? Do you mean it? Very well—so much the better.” “A fine idea!” muttered the doctor. The old princess had gone out.