"I should think you would be ashamed," said Lucien, by way of the last word in argument, and retired to his paper. "You like me to be ashamed," said Antoine, snatching the last word from him, though still with a manner of extreme languor. "Good, then, I have been. It is not"--he watched the trees of Normandy sleepily--"a very nice feeling." "I am glad you know what it is like, at least," growled his uncle into the paper. "Don't you?" said his nephew. "What it is like, is to make you feel rather sick--all the time--especially while you are playing it." "What?" "The thing you are ashamed of." How I wanted to hug him! "Antoine," said Lucien, rising and discarding the paper, "do not be absurd. Here, look at me. You suffered that night at the concert, eh? You excited yourself so much, little imbecile. Are you tired now?" "No, thank you--this is France," replied Antoine. "That is a French cow," he murmured, "not so fat. That is a French tree, not so thick. The sky is different, and the sun. The concerts will be easier, I expect." But the first glimpse of M. Lemaure, the grandfather, is reassuring. In fact, he's almost as irresistible as Antoine, making you realize immediately that the battle is going to be a subtle one, and that it may be difficult to know which side to take, after all. The old musician asks about the last recital. "I was not at the last orchestral," Lucien answers. "I left him in Wurst's charge, and went to the country, ... I should not easily desert my post, as you know; but the boy made it clear enough he had no use for me. He clung to that sacré concerto of Tschedin, which he knows you detest, and which I never thought in a condition to perform. He mocked himself of my objections, contradicted me, eluded me, and twisted Wurst round his finger at rehearsals." "And Wurst?" "Wurst found him charming. He has Russian blood himself, and had known the composer. He has encouraged Antoine's revolutionary tendencies from the first. The pair of them took the last concert so completely out of my hands that it seemed fruitless to remain." "Bébé forgot himself," pronounced M. Lemaure, still quite at ease. Indeed the situation so reminded him of Antoine's childhood that he longed to laugh. "What did he say, and when?" "We will not revive it," said Lucien. "When he came to his senses, he apologized sufficiently. Perhaps he was not well ... when is the first engagement--Sunday?" "Let him be for a time. There is no harm." Lucien grunted. "I shall not disturb him while he is seasick, if that is what you mean. It would do him no harm to play scales all the week." "Scales--as you will, but not persons. Not Dmitri Tschedin, I mean, nor even me. It is intrusive personality, always, that disturbs the current of Antoine's philosophy." "Father! How absurd."