"The doctor has every hope that it will not be permanent...."

Marietje had taken possession of Emilie:

"And so you're living in Paris? With Henri? What do you do there, the two of you? Come, let's hear! Aren't you going to ask me to stay?

Haven't you a spare-room? Look out: I shall come tearing in from Brussels, suddenly! Just imagine if I did!"

But by this time they had pa.s.sed through the dining-room into the drawing-room, where they found Bertha. She was sitting at the window; she looked up.

"Here's Aunt Constance, Mamma. And Emilie."

Bertha merely stood up, kissed her sister and her daughter and at once dropped into her chair again. She scarcely seemed surprised at seeing them so unexpectedly. She barely asked after Mamma, after Ernst, after Henri. She seemed rooted to her seat at that window, through which she gazed at the shadows of the trees. She had grown thin, her eyes stared blankly and miserably in front of her and, in her black dress, she gave an impression of weary, listless resignation. She spoke scarcely more than a word or two, as if it were quite natural that Constance and Emilie should be sitting there.

"Henri sends you his best love, Mamma," said Emilie.

Bertha gave a faint smile, just blinked her eyes, as though to say yes, it was very nice of Henri. But she asked no questions.

"I have just come from Ernst, Bertha," said Constance. "I took him to Nunspeet with the doctor. I went down again yesterday, to see him; and, once I had started, I thought I would come and look you up."

"It's nice of you," said Bertha, vaguely, taking Constance' hand. "Is Ernst very bad? We had a letter from Frances."

"The doctor is very hopeful."

"Yes," said Bertha, as if it went without saying, "he's sure to get over it."

And she seemed tired from talking so much and said nothing more.

Presently Marianne, when she was alone with Constance, said:

"You'll stay to lunch, of course, Auntie?"

"Yes, dear, if I may."

"Are you staying for the night?"

"At the hotel."

"I'm sorry that we haven't a spare-room. Emilie can sleep here; then I'll sleep on the sofa.... I must just go and see about lunch."

"Don't put yourself out for me, dear."

"No, Auntie, but I must see what there is. You know, with just the three of us, we live very simply."

She flushed; and Constance realized that they had to be careful and that they could not keep the same generous table as in the old days.

They exchanged a sad smile. Suddenly, Marianne flung herself into Constance' arms.

"My darling, how are you yourself?"

"Quite well, Auntie."

"You don't look at all well. My child, how thin you've grown! And how drawn your little face looks! And your poor cheeks: why, they've gone to nothing!... Aren't you happy here, dear?"

"Oh yes, Auntie!"

"No, but tell me, honestly: are you happy at Baarn?"

"Yes, Auntie, I am."

"Do you regret the Hague?"

"Regret?... No...."

"Still, just a little?..."

"No ... no...."

Her eyes were full of tears; she began to sob on Constance' shoulder:

"Forgive me, Auntie. I oughtn't to break down like this."

"My darling ... tell me all about it...."

"No, Auntie, it's nothing, really. I feel so ashamed, but, as you know, I always let myself go with you ... because I feel that you do love me ... a little ... and that you are not angry with me ... and that you forgive me...."

"I have nothing to forgive, Marianne...."

"Yes, you have, yes, you have, Auntie.... Oh, forgive me, forgive me!

Tell me you forgive me!..."

"How do you spend your time here, dear?"

"Quietly, Auntie, but I'm quite satisfied. I try to be of some little use ... to Mamma ... and others. I have some poor people whom I look after. But I can't do much, I haven't much.... In the old days, you know, Mamma used to do a lot of good ... in between all her rush and worry; and I try to do a little now. But it is hard work ... and rather thankless work.... However, that's all that's left: to live a little for others ... and do a little for others. But sometimes ... sometimes I find it too much for me...."

"Poor Marianne!"

"Yes, sometimes it's too much for me. I am so young still ... and I feel as if I had done with everything, for good and all!..."

"No, dear, no.... If you only knew! You're a child still, Marianne....

And life, real life, will come later...."

"It will never come for me, Auntie. Oh, forgive me! I feel ashamed of myself. I don't _want_ to talk like this ... but with you, just with you, because you're fond of me, I can't restrain myself.... Oh, tell me that you forgive me, say it, say it!"

"My child, if it does you any good to hear me say so, though I have nothing to forgive, very well, I forgive you."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Auntie!... You are good and kind; you understand."

"Yes, dear, I understand. But the real thing will come later."