closely, do you understand? . . . No, you don't understand; and how can I go on? . . ."
"Max, you're being dull. And you're absurd too."
"I'm sorry, Hans, I simply can't talk about myself: you see, I've tried to, two or three times over."
"Then we won't worry you any more," said Constance.
A constraint seemed to have come upon them, a barrier which rose between their words at every moment. Addie, disappointed, left the room quietly. In a little while, Brauws took his leave, awkwardly, almost rudely. Constance and Van der Welcke exchanged a glance when they were alone. Van der Welcke shook his head:
"The fellow's mad," he said. "Always was; but, since he's joined the proletariats in America, he's stark, staring mad. He was so jolly yesterday, coming with that old sewing-machine. He is a good sort, there's something nice about him. But he's quite mad. Vreeswijck is much better company. We won't ask him again: what do you say, Constance? The fellow's really mad; and, besides, he doesn't know how to talk and, when all is said, he was impertinent, with his 'titled capitalists.' Indeed, I ought really to apologize to you for asking such a queer fish to your house."
"He is different from other people," she said,
