happiness, the grace of her life; because of him her life was worth the living!
He talked, but she saw a grave look in his eyes, a look graver than usual. Yes, she felt it: it was because of what was awaiting them, in an hour’s time; the reception by the grandparents down there, at Driebergen. . . . Van der Welcke also was nervous, did not speak a word, folded his newspaper, this side and that. . . . Constance’ heart beat in her throat, which was dry and parched with nervousness. And Addie’s look became more fixed, more serious than ever. Yes, she felt it. There was a tenderness in the child’s voice, as though he wanted to say:
“Mind you bear up, Mummy, presently. . . .”
And, the nearer they approached, the quieter they became: Henri in his newspaper; she staring through the window; while Addie himself found nothing more to say and sat quite still, with his hands in the pockets of his little great-coat. No, she could never forget that those two old people had taken thirteen years, not to accept her as their daughter, but to look upon her child as their grandchild. During all that time, not a letter, not an attempt at reconciliation: a complete silence, an absolute death towards their only son, towards their only grandson. She was not thinking of herself; she asked for no affection from them, only for cold civility. She felt so much resentment, so much resentment that, when she thought of it, she almost choked.
