"Hello! Frederic. I'm Serge." "How are you?" returned Frederic. "Going to stay long?" "About two years." "The devil you are. I've just been talking to some men about you. I showed them your drawings. One man says you're a genius. What does it feel like?" "Being a genius? I don't know. But I imagine it's like being an ordinary person--only more so. You look rather washed out." "Oh! I've been working hard. I'm tired." "You're very late," said Francis. "Yes. I didn't think you'd be sitting up. All the women in bed? Where are you to sleep?" "I don't know." "Where is he to sleep, pa?" "I don't know. I can't wake your mother up, and the girls will be asleep." Serge laughed. "I don't see anything to laugh at," muttered Frederic. "I don't want you in my bed." "I'll sleep on the sofa," said Serge. "I was laughing because it was so like the Folyats." Francis took a book in his hand and rolled out of the room. Serge removed his collar and covered his feet with his coat and lay down on the sofa. Frederic stood tugging at his little golden-red moustache and looked down at him. "Good-night," he muttered, and went away. "God!" said Serge. "What a weak chin he has." IX INTERIOR _Polyerges, on the contrary, already illustrates the lowering tendency of slavery._ ANTS, BEES AND WASPS. FREDERIC had omitted to make any mention of the fact that he had lost his brother's drawings, and had brushed the thought of them aside. He had a comfortable memory and a convenient conscience which never worried about his lapses and misdemeanours until they were known or in danger of being known to other people. Then he lived in dread of the application of official morality and indulged in a perfect orgy of self-torment, grinding himself between the upper and nether millstones of his own laxity and the rigid codes with which his upbringing had imbued him. He had had a qualm or two about Serge's drawings, but it was not until his brother appeared on the scene that he began to think their loss might be serious--that is, fraught with unpleasant consequences to himself. He was essentially amiable. Disagreement hurt him, and he would go to any lengths to avoid an unprofitable quarrel. On the other hand if a squabble seemed to lead to immediate gain he would rush at it head down. In the morning he was out and away while Serge was still in the bathroom splashing and roaring at the top of his voice. He spent the morning in his office writing letters to Beecroft and Strutt telling them that his brother had come home with a stock of drawings better even than those he had shown them, and letters from London men about them. He had no clear purpose in doing this, but was filled with a vague notion that if the first drawings were irreparably lost he was making some amends.