and breathing iron, odorous of petrol—the acrid smell of its sweat—was soon surrounded by a little group of butchers'-boys and orange-hawkers. Brauws stepped out; and, as Constance happened to be coming downstairs, she received him.
"I'm not fit to be seen, mevrouw. In these 'sewing-machines,' as Hans calls them, one becomes unpresentable at once."
He was shy, looked out at the gasping motor-car and smiled at the crowd that had gathered round:
"I'm causing quite a tumult outside your door."
"They ought to be used to 'sewing-machines' at the Hague by now."
"That's a very graphic word of Hans'."
They both laughed. She thought his laugh attractive and his voice soft and restful to listen to.
"Mevrouw," he said, suddenly, overcoming his bashfulness, "I hope you were not angry that I was so ungracious yesterday? . . ."
"But you weren't at all ungracious."
"Yes, I was, very. But what excuse can I make? I have lost the habit . . . of just talking . . ."
She smiled:
"To ladies," she said, jokingly.
"Yes, about nothing . . . you know . . . small talk . . ."
"You really needn't apologize, Mr. Brauws. You had already said so many delightful things last night that I can quite understand . . ."
