"Where to?" asked Adolphine, all agog.
"They were to go to Paris," said Constance, without hesitating.
"O-oh? . . . Has Emilie-tje gone to . . . Pa-ris?"
"Yes, with her brother," Constance repeated. A minute later, she found an opportunity of saying quietly to Bertha:
"It's better like that, Bertha; better to say it as if it was quite natural . . . If you don't say it yourself . . . and they come to hear . . ."
"Thank you, Constance . . . thank you."
"Oh, Bertha . . . I wish I could do something for you!"
"You have helped me as it is . . . Thank you . . . That's all that I can say . . ."
She lay back helplessly in her chair, staring dimly before her. Constance followed her glance. She saw that Van der Welcke had come, very late. He was sitting in the conservatory—where the boys had cleared away the cards after their game, as Grandmamma always expected them to do—sitting a little in the shadow, but still visible. He was bending over towards Marianne, who sat beside him, her face a white patch in the darkness: a frail little black figure making a faint blur in the dim conservatory, where the gas was now turned out. She seemed to be weeping silently, sat crushing her handkerchief. He appeared to be saying something,
