And she suddenly flitted away to another chair and, bending behind her fan to Van der Welcke:

"That Brauws man is a most disagreeable person. Why can't he let me alone?"

She felt safe with him, this man of her own cla.s.s, who joined hands with her own selfish, happiness-craving youth--for he was young--a small soul, like hers. Her small soul hung on his eyes; and she felt that she loved him. As long as she did not think about it and abandoned herself to her overflowing happiness, she remained happy, full of radiance; it was only at home that it cost her tears and bitter agony.

"You're surely not angry with my little niece?" asked Constance.

He was still pale, under the rough bronze of his cheeks.

"Yes," he said, sombrely.

"Why?" she asked, almost beseechingly. "She is a child!"

"No, she is not merely a child. She represents to me...."

"What?..."

"All of you!" he said, roughly, with a wave of his hand.

"Whom do you mean?"

"Her caste, to which you yourself belong. What am I here for? Tell me what I am here for. A single word from that delicate, lily-white child, who hates me, has made me ask myself, what am I here for, among all of you? I'm out of place here."

"No. You are our friend, Henri's friend."

"And yours?"

"And mine."

"Already?"

"Already. So don't think that you are out of place here."

"You also are a woman ... of your caste," he said, gloomily.

"Can I help that?" she asked, half laughing.

"No. But why friendship? Our ideas remain poles apart."

"Ideas? I have none. I have never thought."

"Never thought?"

"No."

"You are a woman: you have only felt."

"Not that either."

"Not felt? But then what have you done?"

"I do not believe that I have lived."

"Not ever?"

"No, not ever."

"How do you know that now?"

"I am beginning to feel it now, by degrees. No doubt because I am getting old now."

"You are not old."

"I am old."

"And thinking: are you also beginning to think?"

"No, not yet."

"But, by the way you speak of yourself, you are quite young!"

"Don't be angry with that child!" she entreated, turning the conversation. "She is a nice girl, I am very fond of her ... but she sometimes says things...."

"Do you like her?"

"Yes."

"I don't. I could almost say, I hate her as she hates me."

"Why?" she asked, in a frightened voice. "You don't know her. You can't hate her."

"I am different from other people, am I not, mevrouw? I say different things and I say them differently. You know it, you knew it before I entered your house!" he said, almost fiercely.

"What do you mean?"

"I want to say something to you."

"What is it?"

"That child ... that delicate, that lily-white child ... is...."

"What?"

"The danger to your domestic happiness."

She gave a violent start:

"What do you mean?"