Bloch in the family circle, but struck him as vulgar and out of place before strangers. And so he cast a reproving glance at his uncle. “He has talent,” said Bloch. “Ah!” His sister sighed gravely, as though to imply that in that case there was some excuse for me. “All writers have talent,” said M. Bloch scornfully. “In fact it appears,” went on his son, raising his fork, and screwing up his eyes with an air of impish irony, “that he is going to put up for the Academy.” “Go on. He hasn’t enough to show them,” replied his father, who seemed not to have for the Academy the same contempt as his son and daughters. “He’s not big enough.” “Besides, the Academy is a salon, and Bergotte has no polish,” declared the uncle (whose heiress Mme. Bloch was), a mild and inoffensive person whose surname, Bernard, might perhaps by itself have quickened my grandfather’s powers of diagnosis, but would have appeared too little in harmony with a face which looked as if it had been brought back from Darius’s palace and restored by Mme.