oing to bed now?" said his mother. It was intended for a
question, but Kate heard herself that it did not sound like one.

"Of course he's going to bed now," said his father, looking up from
his paper for a moment. "He's tired. Good night, my lad."

"I'm not tired." Wolfgang grew red and hot. What did they mean by
wanting to persuade him that he was tired? He was no longer a child to
be sent to bed. His mother's tone irritated him especially--"you are
going to bed now"--that was an order.

The sparkle in his dark eyes became a blaze; the expression of
defiance and refractoriness on his face was not pleasant to see. They
could no doubt see in what a passion he was, but his father said "Good
night," and held out his hand to him without looking up from the
newspaper.

His mother also said "Good night."

And the son grasped first one hand and then the other--he imprinted
the usual kiss on his mother's hand--and said "Good night."

CHAPTER XIV

Paul Schlieben was sitting in his private office, in the red armchair
he had had placed there for his comfort. But he was not leaning back in
it, he was sitting very uncomfortably, straight up, and he looked like
a man who has made a disagreeable discovery. How could the boy have
contracted debts--with such ample pocket-money? And then that he had
not the courage to come and say: "Father, I've spent too much, help
me," was simply incomprehensible. Was he such a severe father that his
son had reason to fear him? Did the fear drive out love? He reviewed
his own conduct; he really could not reproach himself for having been
too strict. If he had not always been so yielding as Kate--she was too
yielding--he had always thought he had repeatedly shown the boy that he
was fond of him. And had he not also--just lately--thought the boy was
fond of him too? More fond of him than before? Wolfgang had just grown
sensible, had seen that they had his welfare at heart, that he was his
parents' dear son, their ever-increasing delight, their hope--nay, now
that they had grown old, their whole future. How was it that he
preferred to go to others, to people with whom he had nothing to do,
and borrow from them instead of asking his father?

The man took up a letter from his writing-desk with a
grieved look, read it through once more, although he had already read
it three or four times, and then laid it back again with a gesture of
vexation. In it Braumueller, who had lately retired from t