"Why did I always make so much fuss, if the girls cared for it so little? Why did I go on till I was old and worn out?"
It was true, that had been Van Naghel's ambition: he had wanted to see his house a political salon. What he wished had happened. Now it was all over. Now there was nothing to be done but to live quietly, in the little villa at Baarn; to make no debts; to let the boys finish their college-course as quickly as possible; and then to educate Karel and Marietje and let theirs be a different life from the others': how she did not know . . . Bertha remained sitting wearily, staring vaguely before her, half-listening to the sympathetic words, uttered with an emphatic Indian accent, of Aunt Lot, who kept saying:
"Kassian! . . ."[1]
But suddenly an access of nervousness seemed to startle her out of her depression. She looked round again, as though seeking for somebody . . . somebody to say something to. Her glance fastened for a moment on Aunt Lot and then on Constance. Suddenly she rose, with a little laugh, as though she wanted to speak to Louise, farther away. But the nervous pressure of her hand seemed to be urging Constance also to get up, to go with her, somewhere, anywhere . . . They went through the other drawing-room, past the card-table at which
- ↑ Poor thing!
