"He was obliged to be present at a great dinner at the Councillor von Boscher's. He has taken my sister. It is a very grand reception, it seems." There was a short silence. The two men smiled no longer. They felt between them--quite near--the supreme question, imposing itself upon them after a three minutes' conversation, that exasperating and fatal question which cannot be avoided, which unites and divides, which lurks beneath all social intercourse, honours, mortifications, and institutions, the question which has kept Europe under arms for thirty years. "I dined alone," said Jean, "that is to say, with my grandfather." "Not much of a companion, poor man. Is he not always so depressed, and so very infirm?" "But his mind is very much alive, I assure you!" There was a second silence, after which M. Ulrich asked, hesitatingly: "And my sister? Your mother? Is she with them?" The young man nodded an affirmative. The elder man's grief was so intense that he turned away his eyes so that Jean might not see all the suffering they expressed. He raised them by chance to a water-colour by that master of decorative art, Spindler, hanging on the wall, and which represented three beautiful Alsatian girls amusing themselves swinging. Quickly he looked his nephew straight in the face, and, his voice broken with emotion, said: "And you? You, too, could have dined with the Councillor von Boscher, considering how intimate you are with these Germans. Did you not wish to follow your parents?" "No." The word was said decidedly, simply. But M. Ulrich had not got the information he sought. Yes, Jean Oberlé had certainly become a man. He refused to blame his family, to voice any opinion which would be an accusation of the others. His uncle continued with the same ironical accent: "Nevertheless, my nephew, all the winter through your Berlin successes were dinned into my ears. They did not spare me. I knew you were dancing with our fair enemies. I knew their names." "Oh, I beg you," said Jean seriously, "do not let us joke about these questions--like people who dare not face them and give their opinion. I have had a different education from yours, it is true, uncle--a German education. But that does not diminish my love for this country; on the contrary...." M. Ulrich stretched his hand across the table and pressed that of Jean. "So much the better," he said. "Did you doubt it?" "I did not doubt it, my child--I did not know. I see so many things that pain me--and so many convictions surrendered." "The proof that I love our Alsace is shown by my intention to live in Alsheim." "What!" said M. Ulrich, stupefied. "You give up the idea of entering the German Administration--as your father desires you should do? It is grave--a serious thing, my friend, to rob him of his ambition. You were the subject of the future. Does he know?" "He suspects; but we have not yet had any explanations on the matter. I have not had time since my return."