She was not all vanity: she had plenty of common sense besides and no small portion of clear and penetrating insight. She saw her own vanity, indeed, but preferred not to see it. She would rather look upon herself as a martyr than as vain and therefore saw herself in that light, deliberately thrusting aside her common sense; and then, sometimes, in an unhappy mood, she would weep over her own misfortunes. Her only consolation at such times was that she was handsome, a young, handsome woman, and healthy and the mother of two pretty little children: a jonker and a freule.
She now sat wearily, with very few words passing among them all; the dice in Adele and Guy's boxes rattled loudly and worked on Mathilde's nerves.
Gerdy could stand it no longer: she had run out into the hall and almost bumped against Van der Welcke, who was just going to the drawing-room.
"Hullo, kiddie!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Uncle!"
"Where are you rushing off to?"
She laughed.
"Nowhere, Uncle. I don't know. I'm going to wash my hands. I upset the milk. . . . There's no tea left, Uncle."
"That's all right, kiddie, I don't want any tea. . . . Shall we be having dinner soon?"
"It's not six yet."
"Anything from Addie?"
"No, Uncle."
"Has . . . has Mathilde come down?"
"Yes, Uncle."
"I see. Well, I think I'll go upstairs again for a bit."
"Oh, don't, Uncle!"
"I may as well."
