He took his son's cape and travelling bag, and gave him his arm as if he were a lady. Looking back into the courtyard, he asked: "Why, the cart is empty! Why haven't you brought your luggage from the station?"
"My luggage? Why, father, do you think I am married and drag about boxes and portmanteaux with me? My things are in the dressing-bag; besides the fittings, there are a couple of shirts and a few pairs of gloves—that's all."
He talked vivaciously and in a loud voice, and laughed much. Pressing his father's hand several times, he continued: "Well, and how are you, father? What's the news? I am told you are doing very well with your piqués and dimities.... Let us sit down."
They clinked their glasses and finished their lunch quickly. When they had retired to the study, Ferdinand said, lighting a cigar:
"I must introduce the French way of living here, and especially the French way of cooking."
The father made a grimace.
"Why? Isn't the German cuisine good enough?"
"The Germans are pigs!"
"What?" said the old man.
"I say the Germans are pigs," laughed the son. "They neither know how to eat nor how to enjoy themselves."