Uncle, Adolphine, Karel and Dotje were sitting, past the other with Cateau, Van Saetzema, Dijkerhof and Pop; and the conversation at both tables at once flagged; the cards fell hurriedly one after the other . . . They were talking about Bertha, thought Constance, as Bertha drew her gently to the little boudoir, the room where the wine and cakes were set out, where Papa van Lowe's portrait hung, stern and inexorable; the little room where they all of them went when they had anything confidential to say to one another, when there was a scene, or a difference, or a private discussion. And Constance at once remembered how, five months ago, she had appealed to Van Naghel and Bertha in this very room; how they had refused to receive her "officially" at their house; how Van der Welcke had lost his temper, flown into a rage, made a rush for Van Naghel . . . She was now here with Bertha once more; and Papa's portrait stared down coldly and severely upon the two sisters.
They looked at each other in silence. Bertha glanced round timidly: she felt that, in the big drawing-room, at the card-tables, the brothers and sisters had at once begun to talk again, criticizing her, because she had retired for a moment with Constance . . . with Constance. And, lowering her voice to a hardly audible whisper, she murmured:
"Constance . . . Constance . . ."
"What is it, Bertha?"
