When the waiter came he cursed him, flung a bill at him, got up, demanded his coat and hat, swore at the pallid, little, button-covered page who brought it, and lurched out into the street.
A cab stood there; he entered it, fell heavily into a corner of the seat, bade the driver, "Keep going, damn you!" and sat swaying, muttering, brooding on the wrongs that the world had done him.
Wrongs! Yes, by God! Every hand was against him, every tongue slandered him.

Who was he that he should endure it any longer in patience! Had he not been patient?
Had he not submitted to the insults of a fool of a doctor ?--had he not stayed his hand from punishing Dumont's red and distended face ?--had he not silently accepted the insolent retorts of these Grub Street literati who turned on him and flouted the talent that lay dormant in him--dead, perhaps--but dead or dormant, it still matched theirs! And they knew it, damn them! Had he not stood enough from the rotten world ?--from his own sister, who had flung his honour into his face with impunity!--from Dysart, whose maddening and continual ignoring of his letters demanding an explanation---- There seemed to come a sudden flash in his brain; he leaned from the window and shouted an address to the cabman.

His hat had fallen beside him, but he did not notice its absence on his fevered head.
"I'll begin with _him_!" he repeated with a thick laugh; "I'll settle with him first.

Now we're going to see! Now we'll find out about several matters--or I'll break his neck off!--or I'll twist it off--wring it off!" And he beat on his knees with his fists, railing, raging, talking incoherently, laughing sometimes, sometimes listening, as though, suddenly, near him, a voice was mocking him.
He had a pocket full of bills, crushed up; some he gave to the cabman, some he dropped as he stuffed the others into his pockets, stumbled toward a bronze-and-glass grille, and rang.

The cabman brought him his hat, put it on him, gathered up the dropped money, and drove off with his tongue in his cheek.
Quest rang again; the door opened; he gave his card to the servant, and stealthily followed him upstairs over the velvet carpet.
Dysart, in a velvet dressing-gown knotted in close about his waist, looked over the servant's shoulders and saw Quest standing there in the hall, leering at him.
For a moment nobody spoke; Dysart took the offered card mechanically, glanced at it, looked at Quest, and nodded dismissal to the servant.
When he and the other man stood alone, he said in a low, uncertain voice: "Get out of here!" But Quest pushed past him into the lighted room beyond, and Dysart followed, very pale.
"What are you doing here ?" he demanded.
"I've asked you questions, too," retorted Quest.