"Yes, yes, yes," said Van der Welcke, impatiently. "By Jingo, I will be indiscreet. Max, I must know . . ."
"Well, then," said Max Brauws, very simply and shyly, as though he were making an apology. "At the risk of your wife's never asking me to her house again: I was a porter."
They all three looked at him and did not understand.
"A porter?" asked Van der Welcke.
"A porter?" asked Constance.
"Yes, mevrouw: just a porter and dock-labourer."
"A dock-labourer?" asked Van der Welcke, thinking, from Max Brauws' quiet voice, that he had suddenly gone mad.
"Yes, Hans; and, later on, I worked as a stoker in an iron-works, like my father's."
"As a stoker?" asked Constance.
"Yes, mevrouw, as a stoker in a factory. And then, afterwards, as an engine-driver. And then—but that was very hard work—I was a miner for a short time; but then I fell ill."
"A miner?" asked Van der Welcke, in a blank voice, dazed with astonishment.
And at last, recovering from the astonishment, he burst out:
"Look here, Max, if you want to talk seriously, do; but don't go pulling my leg and making a fool of me to my face. I don't understand a word of
