to him? He talks so nicely: time seems to fly when Uncle's talking . . . Tell me, Auntie, Brauws: is Brauws really a gentleman? He has been a workman."
"Yes, but that was because he wanted to."
"I don't understand those queer men, do you? No, you don't either, you can't understand such a queer man any more than I can. Just imagine . . . Uncle Henri as a labouring man! Can you imagine it? No, no, not possibly! He speaks well, Brauws; and I raved about Peace for a whole evening . . ."
"And since?"
"No. I don't rave over things long. Raving isn't the same as feeling. When I really feel . . ."
"Well?"
"Then—I think—it is for always. For always."
"But, Marianne, darling, you mustn't be so sentimental! . . ."
"Well, what about you? You're crying again . . ."
"No, Marianne."
"Yes, you're crying. Let's cry together, Auntie. I feel as if I want to cry with you; I'm in that sort of mood, I don't know why. There, see, I am crying! . . ."
She knelt down by Constance; and her tears really came.
