"Pan Adler," he shouted, "Pan Ferdinand has heard that the hands have had their wages reduced, and he is urging them to leave. He is repeating this in all the workrooms, and is telling the hands all sorts of strange things." "Has the fellow gone out of his mind?" burst out the mill-owner. He sent for his son immediately, and ran to meet him. They met in front of the warehouse, Ferdinand with a lighted cigar in his mouth. "What! you are smoking in the factory? Throw that down at once!" and the old man took it away from him and stamped on it angrily. "What do you mean? Am I not allowed to smoke a cigar? I--I?" "Nobody is allowed to smoke inside the factory," bawled Adler. "You will set the place on fire. You are stirring up my workpeople. Get out of this!" The encounter had many witnesses, and Ferdinand was offended. "Oh, if you are going to treat me like this, I have done with you. Upon my honour, I won't set foot in your factory again. I have had enough of these pleasant home scenes." He stamped on his cigar and went into the house without even looking at his father, who was panting hard with mingled feelings of anger and shame. When they met again at lunch, old Adler said: "Well, you need not trouble me with your help. I will give you a monthly allowance of three hundred roubles, a carriage, horses and servants, and you can do what you like, provided you promise me to keep away from the mill." Ferdinand leaned his elbows on the table, and said: "My dear father, let us talk like reasonable people. I cannot waste my life in this house. I have mentioned to you before that I am threatened with an illness called 'spleen,' and that the doctors have forbidden me to be bored. As our life here is very monotonous, I feel already that I am beginning to fail. I do not want to grieve you, but if I am condemned to death----" His father was frightened. "But I am going to give you three hundred roubles a month," he shouted. Ferdinand made a contemptuous gesture. "Well, say four hundred, then." The son shook his head sadly. "Six hundred--but the devil take you!" screamed Adler, banging the table with his fist. "I cannot give more; the mill economies cannot be strained any further. You will make me bankrupt." "Well, well, I will try and live on six hundred a month," replied his son. "Oh, I wish my illness would----" The wretch knew that it was not worth while going to Warsaw with such an income, but that here in the country he could be the king of the local _jeunesse dorée_, and for the present he was satisfied with his part. He was really a very reasonable young man for his age....