At lunch he gorged with the appetite of a man who has not broken fast for two days. He tucked his napkin round his neck, and ate with his knife. Kohn-Hamilton was horribly shocked by his voracity and his peasant manners. And he was, hurt, too, by the small amount of attention that his guest gave to his bragging. He tried to dazzle him by telling of his fine connections and his prosperity: but it was no good: Christophe did not listen, and bluntly interrupted him. His tongue was loosed, and he became familiar. His heart was full, and he overwhelmed Kohn with his simple confidences of his plans for the future. Above all, he exasperated him by insisting on taking his hand across the table and pressing it effusively. And he brought him to the pitch of irritation at last by wanting to clink glasses in the German fashion, and, with sentimental speeches, to drink to those at home and to _Vater Rhein_. Kohn saw, to his horror, that he was on the point of singing. The people at the next table were casting ironic glances in their direction. Kohn made some excuse on the score of pressing business, and got up. Christophe clung to him: he wanted to know when he could have a letter of introduction, and go and see some one, and begin giving lessons. "I'll see about it. To-day--this evening," said Kohn. "I'll talk about you at once. You can be easy on that score." Christophe insisted. "When shall I know?" "To-morrow ... to-morrow ... or the day after." "Very well. I'll come back to-morrow." "No, no!" said Kohn quickly. "I'll let you know. Don't you worry." "Oh! it's no trouble. Quite the contrary. Eh? I've nothing else to do in Paris in the meanwhile." "Good God!" thought Kohn.... "No," he said aloud. "But I would rather write to you. You wouldn't find me the next few days. Give me your address." Christophe dictated it. "Good. I'll write you to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "To-morrow. You can count on it" He cut short Christophe's hand-shaking and escaped. "Ugh!" he thought. "What a bore!" As he went into his office he told the boy that he would not be in when "the German" came to see him. Ten minutes later he had forgotten him. Christophe went back to his lair. He was full of gentle thoughts. "What a good fellow! What a good fellow!" he thought. "How unjust I was about him. And he bears me no ill-will!" He was remorseful, and he was on the point of writing to tell Kohn how sorry he was to have misjudged him, and to beg his forgiveness for all the harm he had done him. The tears came to his eyes as he thought of it. But it was harder for him to write a letter than a score of music: and after he had cursed and cursed the pen and ink of the hotel--which were, in fact, horrible--after he had blotted, criss-crossed, and torn up five or six sheets of paper, he lost patience and dropped it.