"Yes, yes, come up. Upon my word, Max, I am glad . . ."
Brauws came upstairs; the two men gripped each other's hands.
"Welckje!" said Brauws. "Mad Hans!"
Van der Welcke laughed:
"Yes, those were my nicknames. My dear chap, what an age since we . . ."
He took him to his den, made him sit down, produced cigars.
"No, thanks, I don't smoke. I'm glad to see you. Why, Hans, you haven't changed a bit. You're a little stouter; and that's all. Just look at the fellow! You could pass for your own son. How old are you? You're thirty-eight . . . getting on for thirty-nine. And now just look at me. I'm three years your senior; but I look old enough to be your father."
Van der Welcke laughed, pleased and flattered by the compliment paid to his youth. Their Leiden memories came up; they reminded each other of a score of incidents, speaking and laughing together in unfinished, breathless sentences which they understood at once.
"And what have you been doing all this time?"
"Oh, a lot! Too much to tell you all at once. And you?"
"I? Nothing, nothing. You know I'm married?"
