She now thought that he was exaggerating, that he was joking, that he was pessimistical, hypochondriacal; and she said:

"Why, Gerrit!..."

He understood that she did not believe him, that she never would believe him. He laughed:

"Yes," he said, "I've a gay old imagination, haven't I?"

"Yes, I think you're imagining things a bit."

"It's this confounded weather, you know."

"Yes, that makes people out of sorts. It doesn't affect children, fortunately."

"No, not children."

"When you see them presently, you'll.... But you mustn't let our walk make you gloomy. Gerrit, will you try to keep your mind off things and not to be melancholy? I had no idea that you were like this!"

"No, old girl, but what does any one of us know about the other?"

"Not much, I admit."

"Each of us is a sealed book to the other. And yet you're fond of me and I of you. And you know nothing about me ... nor I about you."

"That's true."

"You know nothing of my secret self. And I know nothing of your secret self."

"No," she confessed softly; and she blushed and thought of the life that had blossomed late in her, blossomed into spring and summer, the life of which n.o.body knew.

"It has to be so. It can't be otherwise. We perceive so little of one another, in the words we exchange. I have often longed for a friend ...

with whom I could feel his secret self and I mine. I never had a friend like that."

"Gerrit, I did not know ... that you were so ... sensitive."

"No. I am saying things to you which I never talk about. And I say them feeling that it is no use saying them. And yet you're my sister, you know."

"Yes."

"I shall take you home now. I'm only dragging you through the mud and rain. The roads are soaked through. You'll be home in a minute or two."

He brought her home. She rang the bell. Truitje opened the door.

"Is Van der Welcke in, do you think?" Gerrit asked Constance.

"Yes, ma'am," Truitje answered, "the master's upstairs."

"I'll just go up and see him."

Gerrit ran up the stairs.

"I was forgetting, ma'am: there's a telegram come," said Truitje.

"A telegram?..."

She did not know what came over her, but she felt deadly afraid. The blood seemed to freeze round her heart. She took the telegram from Truitje, went into the drawing-room and closed the door before breaking it open....

Gerrit had only run up to say a word to Van der Welcke: he had to go back home, for it was twelve o'clock and getting on for lunch-time. Van der Welcke saw him down the stairs.

"Well, good-bye, old chap," said Gerrit, genially, shaking hands with Van der Welcke. "Constance!" he cried. "Constance!..."

She did not answer.

"Constance!" Gerrit called once more.

The kitchen-door was open.

"The mistress is in the drawing-room, sir," said the servant.

"Constance...."

He opened the door. But the door stuck, as though pushing against a body.

"What the devil!..." Gerrit began, in consternation.

They rushed in through the dining-room: Van der Welcke, Gerrit, the maid. Constance was lying against the door in a dead faint, with the telegram crumpled in her clenched hand:

"_Paris_....

"Henri dead. Am in despair.

"EMILIE"

CHAPTER XX

It was a dismal evening at Mrs. van Lowe's that Sunday. And yet Mamma knew nothing: together with Dorine, she had seen that the maids set out the card-tables, had seen, according to her custom, to the sandwiches, the cakes and the wine which were invariably put out in the boudoir, under the portrait of her husband, the late governor-general. But the old lady was different from usual; and Dorine, looking very pale and apprehensive, gave a start of amazement when she asked:

"Dorine, who's been moving Papa's portrait?"

The old woman asked the question testily and peremptorily.

"But, Mamma, it's been here for years. After Papa's death, you said you wouldn't have it always before your eyes in the drawing-room ... and it was moved in here...."

"Who, do you say, moved it?"