"How do you know that now?"
"I am beginning to feel it now, by degrees. No doubt because I am getting old now."
"You are not old."
"I am old."
"And thinking: are you also beginning to think?"
"No, not yet."
"But, by the way you speak of yourself, you are quite young!"
"Don't be angry with that child!" she entreated, turning the conversation. "She is a nice girl, I am very fond of her . . . but she sometimes says things . . ."
"Do you like her?"
"Yes."
"I don't. I could almost say, I hate her as she hates me."
"Why?" she asked, in a frightened voice.
"You don't know her. You can't hate her."
"I am different from other people, am I not, mevrouw? I say different things and I say them differently. You know it, you knew it before I entered your house!" he said, almost fiercely.
"What do you mean?"
"I want to say something to you."
"What is it?"
"That child . . . that delicate, that lily-white child . . . is . . ."
"What?"
