"Isn't she coming?" asked Adolphine, with a sidelong glance at the door.
It was Sunday evening, at Mamma van Lowe's, and it was after half-past nine. It had been like that every Sunday evening since Constance returned from Nice: the sidelong, almost anxious look towards the door; the almost anxious question:
"Is she coming?"
"I shouldn't be surprised if she did to-night," said Floortje. "If so, she's coming late, so as not to stay long."
Mother and daughter were sitting at the bridge-table with Uncle Ruyvenaer and Jaap; and the cards fell slackly one upon the other, uninterestingly, with a dull flop; and Floortje gathered in the tricks mechanically, silently and greedily.
"What a frump Cateau looks to-night!" said Adolphine, with a furtive glance at the second card-table.
"Like a washerwoman in satin," said Floortje.
"I say," said Uncle Ruyvenaer, burning to say something spiteful: he was losing, couldn't get a hand, kept throwing his low cards, furiously, one after the other, on Floortje's fat trumps. "I say, it's high time Bertha interfered!"
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