rooms again, rubbing his hands, which were still cold.
Two very old aunts entered. They were the Miss Ruyvenaers, very old ladies, turned eighty and looking more than that, unmarried sisters of Uncle and of Mrs. van Lowe. Their names were Dorine and Christine; but the younger generations called them Auntie Rine and Auntie Tine:
“So nice of you,” said Mrs. van Lowe. “So nice. . . .”
“What?” asked Auntie Rine.
“So nice of you, Dorine!” screamed Mrs. van Lowe in her ear.
“Marie says,” screamed Auntie Tine, “it’s so nice of you . . . to come to-night. . . . Dorine is so deaf, Marie. . . . Really, she’s getting unbearable. . . .”
Auntie Tine was the young one, the tetchy one, the bitter one; Auntie Rine was the older one, the good-natured, deaf one. Outwardly, the two old ladies resembled each other and looked like old prints in their antiquated dresses; they wore black lace caps on the grey hair that framed their faces, which were wrinkled like a walnut.
The old ladies went and sat far apart; and it was strange to see them sitting at either end of the drawing-room, quietly, watching attentively, not saying much. . . .
Now the others came, gradually. The first to arrive were the Van Saetzemas: Adolphine, her hus-
