"And then?"

"I shall go back to Paris. I'm living there now ... I intended to come and see you too, Auntie."

"Come in then, dear, and stay to lunch."

"I should like to, Auntie."

They got out at the villa in the Kerkhoflaan. Emilie dismissed the fly.

Indoors, she removed her hat, took off the tulle boa, lost something of her exaggerated smartness....

"We have an hour left before lunch, Emilie," said Constance. "Come up to my bedroom. I want to talk to you."

They went upstairs; Constance shut the door:

"Tell me, Emilie ... how are you living, in Paris?..."

"With Henri, Auntie."

"With Henri ... but why, Emilie? Why keep your brother from his work?..."

"I don't, Auntie. He doesn't want to do that sort of work. He wants to be free; and so do I."

"Free ... in what way?"

"We don't feel ourselves suited ... to Dutch life...."

"But why not?"

"I don't know: an exotic drop of blood in our veins, perhaps. Try to understand, Auntie ... you have lived abroad a long time yourself.

Holland is so narrow ... and I ... I have suffered too much in Holland."

"Dear, I suffered ... away from my country; and I longed for my country when I had not seen it for years."

"You will understand all the same. Auntie, do understand. I can't possibly live in Holland again; nor Henri either."

"How do you live there? Tell me."

"We are both living on the money we had left us."

"I know how much that is. There were heavy debts. You did not receive much: not enough to dress as you are dressed.... Emilie, if you care for me at all, tell me everything frankly. I am not inquisitive, but I am fond of you, fond of all of you; and I take an interest in all of you.

You _can't_ live on the money you came into from your father."

"I work, Auntie."

"In Paris? What at? What do you do?"

"I paint. I paint fans ... and screens. You know I have a bit of a gift that way. I paint them with a good deal of _chic_. People in Holland wouldn't care for the way I do them. But in Paris I sell them for twenty francs, fifty francs: my screens fetch a hundred francs. I turn them out in half an hour. They have something about them, I don't know what: _chic_, I suppose, that's all. But I sell them: they are quite nice."

"I see nothing against that, child."

"I've been very lucky with them, Auntie. I've brought a screen with me for Granny ... one for you too ... and a fan for Aunt Lot.... They're presents: I knock them off in a moment. It's not art exactly, but _chic_ rather, actual _chic_...."

And her delicate little fingers outlined a delicate gesture of sheer twentieth-century artisticity. Constance had to laugh in spite of herself.

"And Henri?" asked Constance.

Emilie suddenly turned very red:

"What do you mean?"

"What does Henri do?"

"He does...."

"Nothing?..."

"No. He does something. But don't ask me to tell you."

"Why can't you tell me?"

"You wouldn't understand. Henri is making money, a lot of money."

"What at?"

"I can't tell you, Auntie. It's not my secret, you see: it's his."

"Is it a secret?"

"Yes, it's a secret."

"Then I won't ask."

"It's a secret ... to the others. Perhaps not ... to you."

She was burning to let it out.

"I don't ask you to tell me, Emilie."

"I'll tell you ... if you promise me not to tell anybody else ... not a soul! Henri is ... a clown!"

"Emilie! No!"

"Yes, he's a clown."

"No!... No!"

Emilie gave a loud, shrill laugh:

"You see, you refuse to believe it! I should have done better not to tell you. You can't understand it. If you saw him as a clown, you would.