Mathilde, Mathilde was not. For Mathilde, as he now walked behind her and Johan, he felt only the curiosity to a.n.a.lyze and cla.s.sify the nature of the disease, nothing but that. Even the jealousy died away in him, the child of his jealous parents.... He continued to follow them. He saw Erzeele put his arm through Mathilde's.

He now quickened his pace slightly. His heels rang on the pavement through the night air, regularly, faster than before. The two in front looked round. They gave a start. He caught them up:

"I seemed to recognize you ... in the distance," he said, calmly and naturally, while they were unable to speak and Erzeele withdrew his arm.

"I have come from the station."

"I didn't expect you till to-morrow," said Mathilde, faintly, in spite of herself.

"I finished earlier. Emilie is much more peaceful.... How are the children?"

"All right."

"Where have you been this evening?"

"I went and had tea at Johan's sister's.... Johan was seeing me home."

"But now that Van der Welcke's here ... to see you home...." said Erzeele.

"Not at all," replied Addie. "Come a little way farther."

They walked on, Mathilde between the two men. Addie talked conventionally. They hardly answered. Meanwhile he observed them. His curiosity roused him, gave him a sudden new interest, as though he was treating a case of serious illness.

"I'll say good-bye here," said Erzeele, as they turned down the side-street.

They both shook hands with him and walked home more silently, suddenly dragging their feet.

Addie felt in his pocket for the key:

"It's late," he said, mechanically.

"Getting on for twelve," replied Mathilde, dully.

He saw that her eyes were red with weeping. He said nothing. They went upstairs without speaking. On reaching the nursery, they both crept in for a moment on tip-toe and looked into the little cots. The nurse was sleeping in the next room, with the door open between. They exchanged a smile, because the babies were sleeping so prettily. Then they went to Mathilde's bedroom. Once they had crossed the threshold, it seemed to him as if they were strangers.

"I'm tired," said Mathilde.

"So am I," said Addie.

He kissed her, left her and went to his own bedroom. Through the closed door he could follow her movements, heard her undressing, heard the rustle of her clothes. He sank into a chair and stared in front of him:

"I know," he thought, with his eyes very wide. "She loves him and he loves her. I ... I no longer love her.... She has never been indispensable to my existence.... I made a mistake. I did not know for myself...."

He did not sleep that night. Next morning early he said to Mathilde:

"Tilly, I want to talk to you."

"What about?"

"About ourselves."

She raised her eyebrows impatiently:

"What for?" she asked. "We have had that sort of talk so often. It leads to nothing. It tires me."

"Yes, you're looking tired ... and ill. You're not happy."

"Oh, never mind my happiness!"

"But what else did we come here for, Tilly, except your happiness?"

"That's true," she said, without interest. "You did it for my sake. It was nice of you."

"But it did no good."

"No, it did no good. And it would be better...."

"What?"

"For you to go back to Driebergen, Addie."

"I agree," he said, gently.

She started:

"What do you mean?"

"I was thinking the same thing."

"What?"

"That I ought to go back to Driebergen."

She looked at him in surprise:

"And I?" she asked.

"You remain here ... with the children."

"I don't understand."

"You stay in the Hague ... you and the children."

"And you?"

"I'll go down there."

"I don't understand," she repeated.