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
