One morning when he came back to dinner Louisa proudly told him that a lackey in breeches and livery had left a letter for him, and she gave him a large black-edged envelope, on the back of which was engraved the Kerich arms. Jean-Christophe opened it, and trembled as he read these words: "Frau Josepha von Kerich requests the pleasure of _Hof Musicus_ Jean-Christophe Krafft's company at tea to-day at half-past five." "I shall not go," declared Jean-Christophe. "What!" cried Louisa. "I said that you would go." Jean-Christophe made a scene, and reproached his mother with meddling in affairs that were no concern of hers. "The servant waited for a reply. I said that you were free to-day. You have nothing to do then." In vain did Jean-Christophe lose his temper, and swear that he would not go; he could not get out of it now. When the appointed time came, he got ready fuming; in his heart of hearts he was not sorry that chance had so done violence to his whims. Frau von Kerich had had no difficulty in recognizing in the pianist at the concert the little savage whose shaggy head had appeared over her garden wall on the day of her arrival. She had made inquiries about him of her neighbors, and what she learned about Jean-Christophe's family and the boy's brave and difficult life had roused interest in him, and a desire to talk to him. Jean-Christophe, trussed up in an absurd coat, which made him look like a country parson, arrived at the house quite ill with shyness. He tried to persuade himself that Frau and Fräulein Kerich had had no time to remark his features on the day when they had first seen him. A servant led him down a long corridor, thickly carpeted, so that his footsteps made no sound, to a room with a glass-paneled door which opened on to the garden. It was raining a little, and cold; a good fire was burning in the fireplace. Near the window, through which he had a peep of the wet trees in the mist, the two ladies were sitting. Frau Kerich was working and her daughter was reading a book when Jean-Christophe entered. When they saw him they exchanged a sly look. "They know me again," thought Jean-Christophe, abashed. He bobbed awkwardly, and went on bobbing. Frau von Kerich smiled cheerfully, and held out her hand. "Good-day, my dear neighbor," she said. "I am glad to see you. Since I heard you at the concert I have been wanting to tell you how much pleasure you gave me. And as the only way of telling you was to invite you here, I hope you will forgive me for having done so." In the kindly, conventional words of welcome there was so much cordiality, in spite of a hidden sting of irony, that Jean-Christophe grew more at his ease. "They do not know me again," he thought, comforted. Frau von Kerich presented her daughter, who had closed her book and was looking interestedly at Jean-Christophe. "My daughter Minna," she said, "She wanted so much to see you."