"It can't be a very good school," said Golda. "But it is. It is the only school. All the best painters have been there, and Mr. Froitzheim sent his own brother to it. The Professor says I shall never paint a picture if I don't learn to draw, and I can't do it, I can't do it!" To console himself he painted hard every evening and regarded the Detmold entirely as a place to which his duty condemned him--a place where he had to learn this strange wizardry called drawing, which he did not understand. He went there every day and never spoke to a soul, because he realized that his speech was different from that of the others, and he would not open his mouth until he could speak without betraying himself. He listened carefully to their pronunciation and intonation, and practised to himself in bed and as he walked through the streets. So woeful were his attempts to emulate the Detmold style of drawing, that at last the Professor asked him if he was doing any work at home. To this Mendel replied eagerly that he was painting a portrait of his mother. "Hum," said the Professor. "May I see it?" So Mendel brought the picture, and the Professor said:-- "I mean to say, young man, that it wouldn't be a bad thing if you gave up work a little. I don't want to have to send in a bad report, but what can I do? There's something in you, plenty of grit and all that, but you're young, and, I mean to say, you're here to learn what we can teach you. When we've done with you, you can go your own way and be hanged to you. If you want to smudge about with paint and fake what you can't draw, there's the Academy." At this awful suggestion Mendel shuddered. He was imbued enough with the Detmold tradition to regard the Academy as Limbo. He gave up painting at home, and hurled himself desperately at the task of producing a drawing that should satisfy the Professor. Towards the end of his first term he succeeded, and had his reward in words of praise in front of the class. The Professor had meanwhile taken one of the pupils aside and asked him not to leave the poor little devil so utterly alone. "After all," he said, "the school doesn't exist only for drawing. It has its social side as well, and I don't like to see any one cold-shouldered unless he deserves it. I mean to say, you other fellows have advantages which don't necessarily entitle you to mop up all the good things and leave none for your fellow-creatures." Mitchell, the pupil, took his homily awkwardly enough, but promised that he would do what he could. He seized his opportunity one day when Mendel at lunch had horrified the company by picking up a chicken bone and tearing at it with his teeth. Mitchell took him aside and said:-- "I say, Kühler, old man, you'll excuse my mentioning it, you know, but it isn't done. I mean, we eat our food with forks."