He hesitated. He would rather not go, feeling unfriendly towards the whole family, but he would have liked to see Marianne. Still he said:
"No, I think not."
He was afraid that his refusal would cause a scene; but latterly, even though anger welled up inside her, she had shown a forbearance which surprised him; and she merely said:
"Mamma would like us all to come again."
He was really fond of the old lady: she had always been kind to him.
"Who will be there?" he asked.
"Why, all of them!" she said. "As usual."
"Surely not Bertha . . . and her children . . .?"
"I think so," she said, gently, feeling that he was sounding her to see if Marianne would be there.
"Why shouldn't they go, though they are in mourning? It's not a party: there will be no one but the family."
"Perhaps I'll come on later," he said, still hesitating.
She did not insist, went off on foot with Addie. It was curious, but now, whenever she went to her mother's house, nice though her mother always was to her, she felt as if she were going there as a stranger, not as a daughter. It was because of the others that she felt like a stranger, because of Bertha, Adolphine, Karel, Cateau and Dorine. Gerrit and Paul were the only ones whom she still looked upon
