BUDDENBROOKS
held her handkerchief before her face and wept bitterly.
Thomas, his cigarette in his mouth, looked somewhat blankly at the high-road. “Poor Tony,’ he said at last, stroking her jacket. “I feel so sorry—I understand so well, you know. But what can you do? One has to bear these things. Believe me, I do understand what you feel.”
“Oh, you don’t understand at all, Tom,” sobbed Tony.
“Don’t say that. Did you know it is decided that I am to go to Amsterdam at the beginning of next year? Papa has obtained a place for me with van der Kellen and Company. That means I must say good-bye for a long, long time.”
“Oh, Tom! Saying good-bye to your father and mother and sisters and brothers—that isn’t anything.”
“Ye-es,” he said, slowly. He sighed, as if he did not wish to say more, and was silent. He let the cigarette rove from one corner of his mouth to the other, lifted one eyebrow, and turned his head away.
“Well, it doesn’t last for ever,” he began again after a while. “Naturally one forgets.”
“But I don’t want to forget,” Tony cried out in desperation. “Forgetting—is that any consolation?”
