"I know nothing of it," replied the Doctor, coolly.
"It is reported," continued Mr. Hummel, "that you intend to say farewell to your books and become a professional actor. If this should be the case, I beg of you to think kindly of my little business. I have every kind of artistic head-gear: for lovers fine beaver, with galoon for lackeys, and if ever you act the punchinello, a white felt hat. But you would rather be called clown, perhaps. That is now the fashionable rôle; buffoons are out of style; one shall address you as Sir Clown."
"I have no intention of going on the stage," replied the Doctor; "but if ever the idea should occur to me, I would not come to you for the artistic work of your manufactory, but for instruction in what you consider good manners. I should then at least know what, in my profession, was not befitting men of breeding."
He bowed to the ladies, and went away.
"Always Humboldt," said Mr. Hummel, looking after him.
Laura did not move, but her dark eyebrows were knit so threateningly that Mr. Hummel could not help perceiving it.
"I am quite of your opinion," he said, pleasantly, to his daughter. "It is a great pity that he is spoilt by belonging to these straw-hat people, but now there is no hope for him."
He then took a bit of cake and offered it to a little poodle that was sitting on its hind legs, begging and moving its paws.
"Billy!" cried a lady's voice through the garden.
The dog Billy, however, did not attend, but continued to show his devotion to Mr. Hummel, who, having a greater tenderness for dogs than for men, was feeding him.