And, taking Emilie almost in her arms, she hurried her away.
The first arrivals were coming up the stairs. Louise and Emilie just managed to escape into a little boudoir. But the doors were open.
"We can run across the passage presently," whispered Louise.
"Just think," whispered Emilie, "he's absolutely mad! He interferes with the cook's housekeeping-book. He checks what she spends each day . . . He's mad, he's mad! He won't eat at meals, so as to save a bit of meat for next day. And, when we give a little dinner, nothing's good enough. It's all for people, all for show: he'd starve, in order to give his friends champagne!"
"Hush, Emilie!"
They heard the exchange of greetings in the drawing-room; their parents' well-bred, expressionless voices; Marianne's nervous, tinkling laugh; Otto and Frances making up to the foreign secretary. It all sounded false. The bell kept on ringing. More guests came upstairs, with a rustle of skirts, a creaking of shoes . . .
"We can't get away!" said Emilie, plaintively, almost collapsing in Louise's arms.
They succeeded in running upstairs between two rings at the bell. The table was laid in the nursery: Karel and Marietje were there, playing with Ottelientje and Huig; the baboe sat huddled in a corner.
