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felt a great need to unfasten a few buttons of his waistcoat; but it obviously wouldn't do, for not even the el-derly gentlemen were permitting themselves the liberty. Le-brecht Kr� sat up as straight as he did at the beginning; Pastor Wunderlich's face was as pale as ever, his manner as correct. The elder Buddenbrook had indeed sat back a little in his chair, but he maintained perfect decorum. There was only Justus Kr�--he was plainly a little overtaken. But where was Dr. Grabow? The butter, cheese and fruit had just been handed round; and the Frau Consul rose from her chair and unobtrusively followed the waitress from the room; for the Doctor, Mamsell Jungmann, and Christian were no longer in their places, and a smothered wail was pro-ceeding from the hall. There in the dim light, little Chris-tian was half lying, half crouching on the round settee that encircled the central pillar. He was uttering heart-breaking groans. Ida and the Doctor stood beside him. "Oh dear, oh dear," said she, "the poor child is very bad!" "I'm ill, Mamma, damned ill," whimpered Christian, his little deep-set eyes darting back and forth, and his big nose looking bigger than ever. The "damned" came out in a tone of utter despair; but the Frau Consul said: "If we use such words, God will punish us by making us suffer still more!" Doctor Grabow felt the lad's pulse. His kindly face grew longer and gentler. "It's nothing much, Frau Consul," he reassured her. "A touch of indigestion." He prescribed in his best bed-side man-ner: "Better put him to bed and give him a Dover powder--31 perhaps a cup of camomile tea, to bring out the perspiration.... And a rigorous diet, you know, Frau Consul. A little pigeon, a little French bread..." "I don't want any pigeon," bellowed Christian angrily. "I don't want to eat anything, ever any more. I'm ill, I tell you, damned ill!" The fervour with which he uttered the bad word seemed to bring him relief. Doctor Grabow smiled to himself--a thoughtful, almost a melancholy smile. He would soon eat again, this young mar,. He would do as the rest of the world did--his father, and all their relatives and friends: he would lead a sedentary life and eat four good, rich, satisfying meals a day. Well, God bless us all! HP, Friedrich Grabow, was not the man to upset the habits of these prosperous, comfortable tradesmen and their families. He would come when he was sent for, pre-scribe a few days' diet--a little pigeon, a slice of French bread--yes, yes, and assure the family that it was nothing serious this time. Young as he was, he had held the head of many an honest burgher who had eaten his last joint of smoked meat, his last stuffed turkey, and, whether overtaken un-aware in his counting-house or after a brief illness in his solid old four-poster, had commended his soul to God. Then it was called paralysis, a "stroke," a sudden death. And he, Friedrich Grabow, could have predicted it, on all of these or-casions when it was "nothing serious this time"--or perhaps at the times when he had not even been summoned, when there had only been a slight giddiness after luncheon. Well, God bless us all! He, Friedrich Grabow, was not the man to despise a roast turkey himself. That harn with onion sauce had been delicious, hang it! And the Plettenpudding, when they were already stuffed full--macaroons, raspberries, cus-tard... "A rigorous diet, Frau Consul, as I say. A little pigeon, a little French bread..."
    CHAPTER VIII
    THEY were rising from table. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, gesegnete Mahlzeit! Cigars and coffee in the next room, and a liqueur if Madame feels generous.... Billiards for whoever chooses. Jean, you will show them the way back to the billiard-room? Madame K�n, may I have the honour?" Full of well-being, laughing and chattering, the company trooped back through the folding doors into the landsrape-room. The Consul remained behind, and collected about him the gentlemen who wanted to play billiards. "You won't try a