lonely days, so lonely and so monotonous that she created for herself a bustle and flurry that did not exist, interests that were not there, an activity which she imagined, running in and out of shop after shop, for a box of stationery or a skein of thread, with, in between, a casual charitable call, done in a fussy, unpractical fashion—he suddenly thought her so much to be pitied in her loveless, cheerless life that he said:
"Shall I tell you what would be nice of you? And sensible? . . . To pack up all your traps, say good-bye to your landlady below . . . and come and live with us!"
She stared at him with angry eyes and pressed her thin lips together:
"Come and live with you?" she asked, in astonishment. "What do you mean?"
"What I say. The house is small, but we can manage with the children; you would have a tiny bedroom: that's the best I could do for you. Line is very fond of you and so are the children. And then you'd be living with us and have a jolly time."
"Live with you?" she repeated.
And he saw a shadow of hesitation in her eyes, for, indeed, it seemed to her that a heavenly warmth suddenly lapped her round; and she felt her dark, angry eyes grow moist, she did not know why.
"Yes. Wouldn't you think that jolly?"
"But what put it into your head, Gerrit?"
