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 factory were wont to congregate in the evening, and drank a great many glasses of beer. Cheered somewhat thereby, the thought of facing his father no longer exasperated him. The big scene took place before dinner. Had it not been for the beer, he would have been obliged to act his part on an empty stomach.

Are you no good at all? Thus his father's baritone aria began. Are you worthless? I'm not going to support you. Suppose you had to pay your own board. I can't keep a son of mine in the bank because he is a son of mine unless he does some work. Certainly not. How long are you going to dawdle? What are you going to do? Et cetera, et cetera, with a magnificent cadenza and a high E to top off with. Sustained by the beer, Peter reported to me that he rather enjoyed the tune. He said nothing. Dinner was eaten in complete silence and then the paternal parent went to bed, a discouraged and broken man. He seemed senescent, although he was not yet fifty. After dinner, Peter's mother spoke to him more gently but she also was full of warning and gloomy foreboding: What is it you want to do, my son? . . . I don't know. I'm not sure that I want to do anything. . . . But you must do something. You wouldn't be manly if you didn't do something. It is manly to work. A day will come when my son will want to marry and then he will need money to support his dear wife. Etc. Etc. Peter reported