“My dear Myerhofer, that is a bad business and can’t be so quickly settled. Just sit down and drink a glass of punch with us; then we shall much sooner come to an understanding.”
“Yes, much sooner and more comfortably,” added Fritz, getting up to fetch two fresh glasses.
“Thank you,” said Paul, “I am not thirsty.”
The vague feeling was tormenting him that the brothers were laughing at him even now, as they had done all his life. Iron fetters seemed to bind his limbs; he now felt himself quite powerless and disabled.
“Well, if you come to us like that,” Ulrich retorted, apparently hurt, “then we will not speak to you at all. I have no mind to have my Christmas Eve spoiled.”
“And to let the punch get cold,” Fritz added.
Paul gazed fixedly from one to the other.
How was it possible that those who had so covered themselves with shame could stand before him so proud and impudent, while he, who only came to ask for his rights, trembled and shook like a criminal!
“And if you go home without any consolation!” cried an anxious voice within him. “Do not make them angry; remember what you have vowed to your mother! There must be no question of yourself.”
“Well, will you drink or won’t you?” Ulrich called out, angrily.