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"Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, you'll drive yourself out of

your mind, I assure you, ach, ach! Have some water, do drink a

little."

He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it

mechanically to his lips, but set it on the table again with

disgust.

"Yes, you've had a little attack! You'll bring back your illness

again, my dear fellow," Porfiry Petrovitch cackled with friendly

sympathy, though he still looked rather disconcerted. "Good

heavens, you must take more care of yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch

was here, came to see me yesterday--I know, I know, I've a nasty,

ironical temper, but what they made of it!... Good heavens, he

came yesterday after you'd been. We dined and he talked and

talked away, and I could only throw up my hands in despair! Did

he come from you? But do sit down, for mercy's sake, sit down!"

"No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and why he went,"

Raskolnikov answered sharply.

"You knew?"

"I knew. What of it?"