"Yes. Will you come?"
Van der Welcke and Addie were downstairs. They had just come in, but had heard from the girls that Aunt Adolphine was there; and Van der Welcke welcomed her conventionally. Oh, what fights they had had in the old days! But so many years had passed since those bygone times; and what did a pressure of the hand and a kind word cost? He had acquired a certain genial earnestness in his big house, filled with his wife's family. He would have missed them, all those big children . . . even though Guy and Gerdy were the only cheerful ones. . . . But those two were the sunshine of the house; and the others still clung to him with sympathy: their gratitude created a sympathetic atmosphere round Uncle Henri. . . .
At the long luncheon-table, Marietje cut the bread-and-butter. Granny did not sit at the table; and Mathilde came down very late. No one had told her that Aunt Adolphine was there and she stood amazed in the doorway before bringing herself to offer a non-committal greeting. She was aloof in her manner, thought Adolphine, middle-class, put on airs as she sat down. It was striking how her personality failed to blend with that of the others, as though she remained a stranger among them. In the grey winter morning, hovering sullenly along the dark walls of the dining-room, she was a fresh, handsome woman; her full face was the colour of milk and roses; her lines swelled with health. Gerdy, beside her, was nothing more than a pretty little smiling thing; Marietje and Adeletje were very plain: Marietje so lank and yellow; Adeletje looking quite old with her sickly face. Klaasje was very tiresome, ate uncouthly and sat beside Constance, who kept on gently reproving her and cut up her bread-and-butter for her as though she were a baby.
