Manager."

When he had composed his prospectus and made his estimates, he went to
the factory to see Risler, who, being very busy, made an appointment to
meet him in the Rue Blondel; and that same evening, Delobelle, being the
first to arrive at the brewery, established himself at their old table,
ordered a pitcher of beer and two glasses, and waited. He waited a long
while, with his eye on the door, trembling with impatience. Whenever any
one entered, the actor turned his head. He had spread his papers on the
table, and pretended to be reading them, with animated gestures and
movements of the head and lips.

It was a magnificent opportunity, unique in its way. He already fancied
himself acting--for that was the main point--acting, in a theatre of his
own, roles written expressly for him, to suit his talents, in which he
would produce all the effect of--

Suddenly the door opened, and M. Chebe made his appearance amid the
pipe-smoke. He was as surprised and annoyed to find Delobelle there as
Delobelle himself was by his coming. He had written to his son-in-law
that morning that he wished to speak with him on a matter of very serious
importance, and that he would meet him at the brewery. It was an affair
of honor, entirely between themselves, from man to man. The real fact
concerning this affair of honor was that M. Chebe had given notice of his
intention to leave the little house at Montrouge, and had hired a shop
with an entresol in the Rue du Mail, in the midst of a business district.
A shop? Yes, indeed! And now he was a little alarmed regarding his hasty
step, anxious to know how his son-in-law would take it, especially as the
shop cost much more than the Montrouge house, and there were some repairs
to be made at the outset. As he had long been acquainted with his
son-in-law's kindness of heart, M. Chebe had determined to appeal to him
at once, hoping to lead him into his game and throw upon him the
responsibility for this domestic change. Instead of Risler he found
Delobelle.

They looked askance at each other, with an unfriendly eye, like two dogs
meeting beside the same dish. Each divined for whom the other was
waiting, and they did not try to deceive each other.

"Isn't my son-in-law here?" asked M. Chebe, eying the documents spread
over the table, and emphasizing the words "my son-in-law," to indicate
that Risler belonged to him and to nobody else.

"I am waiting for him," Delobelle replied, gathering up