"Indeed! You think you're capable now of being able to face the ... unpleasantness which you ran away from last year?"
Berthold looked through the window at the autumn rain. "You know, father," he replied, twitching his brows, "that I wasn't in the right frame of mind then. I now feel strong and armed, in spite of your previous remarks, which have really touched the actual point. And above all I know precisely what I want."
The old man shrugged his shoulders. "I can't understand how any one can give up a definite work ... and you will certainly have to give it up, for a man can't serve two masters ... to think of dropping something definite to ... to make speeches to people whose profession, so to speak, it is to have preconceived opinions—to fight for opinions which are usually not even believed in by the man who puts you forward to represent them."
Berthold shook his head. "I assure you, father, I'm not tempted this time by any oratorical or dialectical ambition. This time I have discovered the sphere in which I hope it will be possible for me to do quite as definite work as in the laboratory. I intend, you know, if I do any good at all, to bother about nothing else except questions of public health. Perhaps I can count on your blessing, father, for this kind of political activity."
"On mine ... yes. But how about your own?"
"What do you mean?"
"The blessing to which one might give the name of the inner call."
"You doubt even that," replied Berthold, really hurt.
The servant came in and gave the old doctor a visiting card. He read it. "Tell him I'll be glad to see him in a minute."
The servant went away.