“Yes, but we mustn’t stare like that,” said Marianne van Naghel to the boys.
“Why shouldn’t I, if I want to?” asked Piet Saetzema.
“Because it’s ill-bred,” said Marianne, angrily.
“Oh, indeed? It’s you that’s ill-bred.”
“And your a boor!” cried Marianne, losing her temper.
“Marianne!” said her sister Emilie, soothingly.
“It’s those horrid boys of Aunt Adolphine’s!” muttered Marianne, in her indignation.
“Then don’t take any notice of them.”
“Here comes Aunt Constance. . . .”
Mrs. van Lowe had gone to meet her daughter in the passage; she embraced her there. The door was open; the brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces looked out and at once began to talk busily to one another, in artificial tones. Then Mamma came in, leading Constance by the hand. On her face was a smile of quiet content, but she was trembling with nervousness. She remained standing for a moment, looking through the crowded room. Constance van der Welcke, holding her mother’s hand, also stopped. She was still a pretty woman, very pale, with hair beginning to go grey around her young and charming face, in which the dark eyes loomed big with anxiety; she still had the figure of a young woman; and she wore a black-satin gown. . . . There was a wait of a few seconds at the door, a pause just perceptible, yet poignant, as though a stubborn situation were being forced into the easier groove of
