"I'll write and let you know; don't be so impatient."

"Now you are a darling!"

She hugged her aunt:

"You're looking so nice to-day, Auntie. So pretty. You are really. I say, how old are you?"

"You silly child, what does it matter?"

"I want to know. Wait, I can work it out. Mamma said there was eight years between you. Mamma is fifty. So you must be forty-two."

"Very nearly forty-three. That's old, isn't it?"

"Old? I don't know. For some women. Not for you. You're young. And how young Uncle looks, doesn't he? Why, Addie is more sedate than Uncle!... You don't look forty-two, you look ten years less than that. Auntie, isn't it strange how the years go by? I ... I feel old. One year comes after another; and it all makes me miserable.... Auntie, tell me, what makes me so fond of you?... Sometimes ... sometimes I feel as if I could cry when I am here...."

"Do I make you so sad?"

"No, not that. But, when I'm with you, I don't know why, I'm always thinking ... even when I'm chattering ... I feel happy in your house, Auntie. Look, here are the tears!... But you ... you have tears in your eyes also. Yes, you have, you can't deny it. Tell me, Auntie, what is it?"

"Why, Marianne, it's nothing ... but you talk such nonsense sometimes ... and that upsets me; and, when I see other people crying, it makes the tears come into my eyes too."

"Uncle isn't always nice to you, is he, Auntie?"

"My dear Marianne!..."

"No, I know he isn't. Do let me talk about it. It's so horrid, when you're very fond of some one, always to be silent about the things you're thinking of. Let me talk about it. I know that Uncle is not always nice. I told him the other day...."

"What?"

"You'll be angry when you hear. I told him the other day that he must be nicer to you. Are you angry?"

"No, dear, but...."

"No, you mustn't be angry: I meant to say the right thing. I can't bear to think of your not being happy together. Do try and be happy together."

"But, Marianne dear, it's years now...."

"Yes, but it must be altered. Auntie, it must be altered. It would make me so awfully happy."

"Oh, Marianne, Marianne, how excitable you are!..."

"Because I feel for people when I'm fond of them. There are people who never feel and others who never speak out. I feel ... and I say what I think. I'm like that. Mamma's different: she never speaks out. I must speak out; I should choke if I didn't. I should like to say everything, always. When I'm miserable, I want to say so; when I feel happy, I want to say so. But it's not always possible, Auntie.... Auntie, do try and be happy with Uncle. He is so nice, he is so kind; and you were very fond of him once. It's a very long time ago, I know; but you must begin and grow fond of each other again. Tell me, can't you love him any more?"

"Dear...."

"Oh, I see it all: you can't! No, you can't love him any more. And Uncle is so nice, so kind ... even though he is so quick-tempered and excitable. He's so young still: he's just like a hot-headed undergraduate sometimes, Henri said. In that scene with Papa, he was just like a game-c.o.c.k.... You know, in the family, the uncles are afraid of Uncle Henri, because he always wants to be fighting duels. But that's his quick temper; in reality, he's nice, he's kind. I know it, Auntie, because, when Uncle sees me home, we talk about all sorts of things, tell each other everything. You don't mind, Auntie, do you? You're not jealous?"

"No, dear."

"No, you're not jealous. And Uncle Henri is my uncle too, isn't he, and there's no harm in talking to him? He talks so nicely: time seems to fly when Uncle's talking.... Tell me, Auntie, Brauws: is Brauws really a gentleman? He has been a workman."

"Yes, but that was because he wanted to."

"I don't understand those queer men, do you? No, you don't either, you can't understand such a queer man any more than I can. Just imagine ... Uncle Henri as a labouring man! Can you imagine it? No, no, not possibly! He speaks well, Brauws; and I raved about Peace for a whole evening...."

"And since?"

"No. I don't rave over things long. Raving isn't the same as feeling. When I really feel...."

"Well?"

"Then--I think--it is for always. For always."

"But, Marianne, darling, you mustn't be so sentimental!..."

"Well, what about you? You're crying again...."

"No, Marianne."

"Yes, you're crying. Let's cry together, Auntie. I feel as if I want to cry with you; I'm in that sort of mood, I don't know why. There, see, I am crying!..."

She knelt down by Constance; and her tears really came.

"Dear, you mustn't excite yourself like that. Some one is coming; I hear Uncle...."

The girl recovered herself quickly as Van der Welcke entered the room. He stood for a moment in the doorway, smiling his gay, boyish smile, his blue eyes glowing with happiness. She looked at him for a second.

"Well, Marianne ... I haven't seen you for ever so long...."

"Yes, you're always in that old car with Brauws.... And I've been an absolute b.u.t.terfly. Only think, at the Court ball, the other night, just as the Queen entered the ball-room...."

She sat down and told her little budget of news in a voice that seemed to come from far away. The dusk crept in and shadowed the room, obliterating their outlines and the expression of their faces.

CHAPTER XV

"Isn't she coming?" asked Adolphine, with a sidelong glance at the door.

It was Sunday evening, at Mamma van Lowe's, and it was after half-past nine. It had been like that every Sunday evening since Constance returned from Nice: the sidelong, almost anxious look towards the door; the almost anxious question:

"Is she coming?"

"I shouldn't be surprised if she did to-night," said Floortje. "If so, she's coming late, so as not to stay long."

Mother and daughter were sitting at the bridge-table with Uncle Ruyvenaer and Jaap; and the cards fell slackly one upon the other, uninterestingly, with a dull flop; and Floortje gathered in the tricks mechanically, silently and greedily.