two," that, "having been out for a long walk, and happening at
the moment to be passing," he had "looked in for a moment's
rest." Then silently and humbly the old man would resume his hat
and scarf; softly he would open the door, and noiselessly depart
with a forced smile on his face--the better to bear the
disappointment which was seething in his breast, the better to
help him not to show it to his son.

On the other hand, whenever the son received his father civilly
the old man would be struck dumb with joy. Satisfaction would
beam in his face, in his every gesture, in his every movement.
And if the son deigned to engage in conversation with him, the
old man always rose a little from his chair, and answered softly,
sympathetically, with something like reverence, while strenuously
endeavouring to make use of the most recherche (that is to say,
the most ridiculous) expressions. But, alas! He had not the gift
of words. Always he grew confused, and turned red in the face;
never did he know what to do with his hands or with himself.
Likewise, whenever he had returned an answer of any kind, he
would go on repeating the same in a whisper, as though he were
seeking to justify what he had just said. And if he happened to
have returned a good answer, he would begin to preen himself, and
to straighten his waistcoat, frockcoat and tie, and to assume an
air of conscious dignity. Indeed, on these occasions he would
feel so encouraged, he would carry his daring to such a pitch,
that, rising softly from his chair, he would approach the
bookshelves, take thence a book, and read over to himself some
passage or another. All this he would do with an air of feigned
indifference and sangfroid, as though he were free ALWAYS to use
his son's books, and his son's kindness were no rarity at all.