she must not forget that Mamma was an old woman, a very old woman, and that we ought to try and make her happy in her old age. Then I said that Constance was Mamma's child as much as any of us; and that it was only natural for Mamma to want us all to take Constance back as a sister, as it had all happened so very long ago and she had been married to Van der Welcke for fifteen years and their boy is thirteen...."

"Dorine, please, would you mind leaving the paper-weight alone? Else all those letters are sure to get mixed.... And what did Adolphine say to that?"

"Well, at first, Adolphine wouldn't hear of going, said she was afraid of Constance' bad influence on the girls, said she couldn't possibly take them. In fact, she talked like a fool. But, when I told her that Van Naghel and Bertha were coming and that not a word had been said about their girls—that they were coming too—then Adolphine said that she would come after all and bring her girls. And Gerrit and Ernst"—Dorine opened Karel's stamp-box, but shut it again at once, terrified when she saw the stamps neatly arranged in the compartments, according to their values—"I saw Gerrit and Ernst too; and Adeline spoke very nicely; and Paul...."

A gong sounded.

"That's dinner," said Karel. "I suppose you won't stay, Dorine? I don't think there's much: Cateau and I always dine so simply...."

"Oh, I eat very little; I should like to stay, if I may; then we can all go on to Mamma's afterwards...."

Karel van Lowe gave one more look at the muddy hem; he remembered that the dining-room had been cleaned that day; and he could restrain himself no longer:

"Dorine," he said, in despair, "in that case, won't you let Marie brush you down first?"

Then, at last, Dorine realized that she was not fit to be seen, after trotting and tramming the whole afternoon in the rain. She looked in the glass: when she had taken off her wet cape, she would be less presentable than ever. And so she dolefully changed her mind:

"You're right, Karel, I don't look nice; and my boots are wet: I think I had better go home and change for the evening. So good-bye for the present, Karel."

"Good-bye, Dorine."

The gong sounded again. Dorine clutched her reticule, hunted all round the room for her umbrella, until she remembered that it was outside, and hurried away, while Karel repaired the disorder on his writing-table and put the paper-weight and paper-knife straight.

In the hall, Dorine met her round-faced sister-in-law staring at her with startled eyes like an owl's. Cateau asked, in a slow, whining voice that emphasized every third or fourth word:

"Oh, Do-rine ... are you re-ally ... staying to din-ner?"

"No, thanks, Cateau; it's very kind of you, but I must change my things. They're all coming this evening, to Mamma's."

"Oh, are they all ... com-ing?"

"Yes.... And I am so glad.... Well, don't let me keep you. Karel will tell you all about it. So good-bye, till later...."

She hurried away; Sientje let her out, severely.

Karel and Cateau sat down to dinner. They had no children; they were now living in the Hague, after many years spent in a pretty village in Utrecht, where Karel had been burgomaster. They had a large and handsome house in the Oranjestraat; they kept three servants; they kept a carriage. They loved good fare and took their meals by themselves, just the two of them; they never entertained: there were no small dinners, for relations, nor dinner-parties, for friends. They lived according to the rules of opulent respectability. Everything in their large house, with its heavy, comfortable furniture, was solid and respectable, in no wise luxurious. They both looked healthy and opulent and Dutch and respectable. Cateau was a heavy woman of forty, with a pair of startled round eyes in a round face, and she always wore a neat, smooth, well-fitting dress, brown, black or blue. They lived by the clock: in the morning, Karel took a walk, always the same walk, through the Woods; after lunch, Cateau did her shopping; once a week, they paid a round of visits together; and that was the only time when they went out together. They were always at home in the evening, except on Sundays, when they went to Mamma van Lowe's. Notwithstanding their comfortable life, their three servants and their carriage, they were thrifty. They considered it a sin and a shame to spend money on a theatre, an exhibition, or a book. Every spring and autumn, they bought what they needed for their house and wardrobe, so as to have everything good and nice; but that was all. Their one vice was their table. They lived exceedingly well, but kept the fact from the family and always said that they lived so very simply that they could never ask an unexpected visitor to stay. And, as they never invited anybody, the secret of their dainty table did not leak out. They had a first-rate cook and Cateau kept a tight rein upon her, telling her that meneer was so particular. But they both feasted, daily. And, at their meals, they would exchange a glance of intelligence, as though relishing some voluptuous moment of mutual gratification, because everything was so good. Softly smacking their lips, they drank a good glass of good red wine. And then, at dessert, Karel's face beamed fiery red and Cateau blinked her eyes, as though tickled to her marrow. Then they went into the sitting-room and sat down at the round table, with their hands folded in their laps, to digest in silence. Karel, for appearance' sake, would undo the parcel from the circulating library. Now and again, they looked at each other, reflecting complacently that Anna had cooked that dinner beautifully. But, as they considered that this enjoyment was sinful and, above all, un-Dutch, they never spoke of their enjoyment and enjoyed in silence.

This evening, they reckoned out that they had quite an hour left in which to digest their dinner by the big stove; and, as they did not like Mamma's tea, they had a cup of tea at home. At eight o'clock, Sientje came to say that the brougham was at the door. So as not to let the brougham wait longer than necessary in the rain and spoil, they got up at once, put on cloak and great-coat and started. They did not so much mind if the horse got wet, for the horse was jobbed; but the brougham was their own.

CHAPTER II

Dorine van Lowe lived by herself in a boarding-house, though old Mrs. van Lowe had a large house in the Alexanderstraat. Their friends all thought this odd; and Dorine was a little perplexed at having constantly to explain that she would have liked nothing better than to live with Mamma and keep house for Mamma and look after Mamma and spoil Mamma. But, as a girl of twenty-two, she had left home to become a nurse; and, when she found that she had mistaken her vocation, Mamma had refused to let her come back. But surely, Mamma, who was so fond of gathering all her children round her, the friends would say. Yes, that was so, said Dorine: Mamma doted on her brood; and yet she preferred to be alone in her big house, she preferred to do her housekeeping herself and did not care to have any one staying with her or fussing about her.... No, it was better that Dorine should stop in her boarding-house. Mamma was still so active, saw to everything, knew about everything. Dorine would have been of no use to her at home.... Besides, Mamma herself wouldn't hear of it, and used to say, laughingly, but quite in earnest:

"Those who go away can stay away...."

And the Van Lowes' friends thought it odd, for the old lady was known for just that motherly quality of hers, for loving to keep all her children round her, in a close family-circle, at the Hague or in the immediate neighbourhood. And she did not look at all a difficult old lady, with her gentle, refined old face of a waxy pallor and her smooth grey hair; not at all a managing old dame who could not possibly live in the same house with her unmarried daughter. And so Dorine was always a little perplexed