At half-past nine Anton Egoritsch himself brought him an omelet, and taking the violin from his hand, placed it in the case. Mitia hastily ate the omelet, his father almost feeding him while drawing on an old uniform. Anton Egoritsch was soon due at his post in the Chancery Department, where he occupied the lowest and worst paid position--that of copyist. He intended to hand in the work he had done at home, for which he hoped to get extra pay. In that case a fire would be lighted in the bedroom, and the little girls would have breakfast. Now they could only have weak tea and rye bread, and gaze at Mitia’s omelet with hungry eyes. Mitia would gladly share it with them, but Anton Egoritsch was inexorable. “Have patience, children, have patience. Father will get some extra money, and then you shall breakfast too. Mitenka must eat. He needs all his strength. He’ll be an artist, and provide for us all, and make us famous. That’s what he’ll do, children.” Anna Nikitischna, who never contradicted her husband, looked sadly at her son. Her heart contracted painfully at the sight of his thin body, his pale little face, and hollow cheeks. “The food does him no good,” she thought, “and whatever the future may bring, at present he looks wretched.” It was not that she doubted Mitia’s future fame; on the contrary her heart joyfully inclined to the belief when Anton Egoritsch related to her how surprised and delighted the audience had been last night, and how they had vied with each other in treating Mitia as a phenomenon. She simply understood nothing about it all, and when she listened to the monotonous exercises her son was constantly practising, she couldn’t tell whether the playing was good or bad. After the omelet was finished, Anton Egoritsch wrapped up his son and took him to the Conservatory. Mitia not only studied music there, but also other subjects. The first lesson to-day happened to be “the Russian language.” There were about thirty boys in the class. The teacher had not yet arrived, and Mitia found himself in the midst of a scrimmage, which turned out to be a game. He joined in the romp, and was soon jumping and turning somersaults with unusual activity and liveliness. What the others did, he did. He felt cheerful and unrestrained. The deep depression which fell on him in consequence of incessant and hard practising instantly vanished. The boys paid him no especial attention, but just treated him like one of themselves. No one seemed to remember the laurels he had won last night, or dwell upon the fact that he was the most talented student of the Conservatory. They were all aware of it, but there was no time to give it a thought at such a moment. The game was a very close one, and the combat of the contending parties very sharp. The teacher entered, every boy scrambled to his place, and quiet was restored.