The wind came howling along, chill and cold, like an angry spite that was all mouth and breath; and Adeletje, hanging on her aunt's arm, huddled into herself, for the wind blew chill in her sleeves and on her back.
"Are you cold, dear?"
"No, Auntie," said Adeletje, softly, shivering.
Constance smiled and pressed Adeletje's arm close to her:
"Let's walk a little faster, dear. It'll warm you; and, besides, I'm afraid it's going to rain. It's quite a long way to the old lady's and back again. . . . I fear I've tired you."
"No, Auntie."
"You see, I didn't want to take the carriage. This way, we do the thing by ourselves; and otherwise everybody would know of it at once. And you must promise me not to talk about it."
"No, Auntie, I won't."
"Not to anybody. Otherwise there'll be all sorts of remarks; and it's no concern of other people's what we do."
"The poor old thing was very happy, Auntie. The beef-tea and the wine and chicken . . ."
"Poor little old woman . . ."
"And so well-mannered. And so discreet. . . . Auntie, will Addie be back soon?"
"He's sure to telegraph."
"It's very nice of him to take such pains for Alex. We all of us give Addie a lot of trouble. . . . When do you think he'll come back?"
"I don't know; to-morrow, or the next day. . . ."
"Auntie, you've been very fidgety lately."
"My dear, I haven't."
"Yes, you have. . . . Tell me, has anything happened with Mathilde? Has there?"
