"It's awful!" And then he stared at himself absently. What had they been saying again that morning? They had been jeering at him, Lehmann and von Kesselborn, who were to be confirmed with him. Was it because their fathers were not so rich as his? Kesselborn's father was a retired officer, who now filled the post of registrar, but Kesselborn was terribly proud of his "von"; and Lehmann was his bosom friend. However, he had told them that he had already had a silver watch since he was eight years old, and that he was to have a real gold one for his confirmation, which he would then wear every day--that had vexed them awfully.
It was before the lesson had commenced--they were all three waiting--and Kesselborn had suddenly said: "Schlieben gives himself airs," and had then turned to him and said: "You needn't be so stuck-up." And then Lehmann had added, also quite loudly so that everybody must have heard it: "Don't put on so much side, we know all about it."
"What do you know?" He had wanted to jump on Lehmann like a tiger, but the clergyman had just then come in and they began prayers. And when the lesson, of which he had hardly heard anything--he heard the other words all the time--was over, he had wanted to tackle Kesselborn and Lehmann, but they had been sitting near the door, and had already gone before he could get out of his bench. He did not see them again. But he noticed glances in which there was a certain curiosity and spitefulness--or did he only imagine it? He was not quite sure about it, and he had not thought any more about it either. But now when he saw his mother's face so close to his in the glass, he suddenly remembered it all again. And it all came back to him, plumped like a stone into his thoughts.
"I'm not at all like you," he said once more. And then he watched her face: "Not like father either."
"Oh yes," she said hastily, "you are very much like your father."
"Not the slightest bit."
Her face had flamed, and then he noticed that she suddenly turned pale. Then she laughed, but there was something forced in her laugh. "There are many children who hardly resemble their parents at all--that has nothing to do with the matter."
"No, but----" All at once he stopped and frowned, as he always did when he exerted himself to think. And he shot such sharp, such suspicious, such scrutinising glances at the glass under his knit brows that Käte involuntarily moved aside, so that her head could not be seen near his in the glass any more.
She was seized with a sudden fear: what did he mean? Had he spoken like that intentionally, or had he said it quite unconsciously? What had they said to him? What did he know?
Her hands that had found something to do to his clothes--she was on her knees pulling down his trousers--were full of nervous haste, and were pulling here, pulling there, and trembling.