"Yes, Bertha?"
"Are you fond of Marianne?"
"Yes, very."
"Still?"
"Yes, still."
"Constance . . ."
"Yes, Bertha?"
"It is just as well . . . that we are going to Baarn . . . Tell me, Constance: Van der Welcke . . ."
"Well?"
"What sort of a man is he?"
"What do you mean, Bertha?" asked Constance, gently.
"Is . . . is it his fault? . . . Is he a gentleman?"
Constance defended her husband calmly, but not without astonishment that Bertha could speak so frankly about that . . . as if they both knew all about it:
"No, Bertha, I don't think that Henri . . . that it is Henri's fault. I don't think it's Marianne's fault either. Bertha, I don't believe they can help it. They have an attraction for each other, a very great attraction . . ."
A tenderness came over her soul, like a glow, like a glowing compassion.
"Constance, they must not let themselves go. They must struggle against it."
