You have no money, you fellows; and, even if you had . . . a man must be something . . . in order to do any or get any happiness out of life . . . for himself and those about him. . . ."
"Yes, Addie. . . ."
"Promise me now, old chap, to do your best. . . . You see, I'm playing the father to all of you, even though I'm only six years older than you are. I feel a sort of father to you . . . and I should like to see you all happy . . . and prosperous. . . . But you must help me, Alex. Show a little energy. If you hadn't thrown up the sponge at once at Alkmaar, you'd almost have had your commission by now. . . ."
"Yes. . . ."
"Like your father. Mamma would have liked that. But we won't talk about it any more and we'll hope that things will go better at Amsterdam. . . ."
"Addie . . . do you remember Papa well?"
"Of course I do."
"So do I. . . . I was eight years old, when he died. . . . I even remember . . ."
"What?"
"That evening . . . though I didn't understand at the time . . . why Mamma cried and screamed like that . . . or why Aunt Constance and Uncle Henri were there. . . . It was not until later, oh, years later, that I understood! . . . But I saw . . . I saw Papa lying . . . with blood all round him; and that's a thing which always . . . always . . . hovers before my eyes. I'm always seeing it, Addie! . . . Tell me, Addie, do you know why Papa did it? . . . There was nothing, surely, to make him so unhappy as all that?"
"He was very ill."
"But not incurably?"
