"Would you mind, Bertha, if I just spoke to Marianne?"
"Very well," said Bertha, "do."
"Now? Here?"
"Yes," said Bertha.
Constance rose, opened the door.
"So that's two more tables . . . two sofas," Frans counted, making notes on his list.
"Louise," said Constance, at the door, "would you ask Marianne to come here a moment?"
She sat down again by her sister, affectionately, took her hand, brimming over with pity for the tired woman whom she had always looked upon as an ever capable, busy woman of the world, now exhausted with all the thousand cares of her life and smitten by the sudden blow that had befallen her. And Constance' heart beat anxiously in dread of what was coming: she trembled, felt her eyes become wet . . .
Marianne entered, pale, almost diaphanous; and her black blouse made her look a frail little figure of mourning, slender and drooping. For the thing which she could not conceal in her innermost self was no longer a light shining from her, visible to all: it was now a cloud around her, still visible, but as a shadow of grief, whereas but lately it had been a glow of happiness. Constance at once drew her to her, kissed her, held her to her. And she could not find words. Bertha did not speak.
