Old Mole was startled. Tolerance was the last thing he expected from Panoukian; it was entirely out of keeping with his boyishness. He waited for more, but nothing came; and this was the most astonishing of all, for there Panoukian sat, boyish, glistening with youth, enunciating a maxim of tolerance, and actually relishing silence. Panoukian, having nothing more to say, was content to say nothing! . . . It was too bad. Almost it seemed that he had gone through all his misery for nothing. He had striven to master his situation only at every turn to be met with the triumph of the unexpected. He had decided to start by seeing the affair from Matilda's point of view and Panoukian's, and now, ludicrously, maddeningly, they had both changed, and both, apparently, were being intent on showing an amicable front to him. They were--and he writhed at the thought--they were trying to spare his feelings. An admirable maxim that! Panoukian, of course, had every right to be Panoukian; _ergo,_ if needs must, to change into another Panoukian. The young man's placid, contented, comfortably absorbed silence was exasperating. "Panoukian!" said Old Mole. Panoukian groped out of his silence. "Yes, sir." (Ludicrously boylike he looked, all wide-eyed, deliberate innocence.) "There is a passage in Montaigne which, I think, excellently illustrates the observation you made some time ago. It is over there at the end of the bookcase." Panoukian rose and strolled over to the shelf indicated, his back toward Old Mole, who sprang to his feet, strode, breathing heavily, glared fixedly at the round apex of the angle of Panoukian and lunged out in a lusty kick. The young man pitched forward, righted himself, and swung round, with his hand soothing the coat-tail-covered portion of his body. "Why the Hell did you do that?" he grunted. "To illustrate your maxim," said Old Mole, "and also to relieve my feelings." "If you weren't who you are and what you are," retorted Panoukian sharply, "I should knock you down." To that Old Mole could not find the apt reply, and once again, ruefully, he was forced to see that he had been betrayed into an absurdity. In that moment he hated Panoukian more than anyone he had ever known. He had been whirled by the unexpectedness of Panoukian into throwing away his one flawless weapon, his dignity, and without it he was powerless. Without it he could not even draw on the prescribed attitudes and remedies for gentlemen in his position. All the same he was thoroughly pleased to have caused Panoukian pain, and hoped he would be forced to take his meals from the mantelpiece for a day or two. They stood glaring at each other, both wondering what would happen next. Panoukian retired gracefully from the conflict by stooping to pick up the puppy. Old Mole snorted, grabbed his hat, and stumped away and out of the chamber.