had longed so greatly abroad, while she noticed nothing of this cross-fire, through which she walked quietly—in the street, at the time of the two weddings, at Scheveningen and now—it continued among all those people—acquaintances, friends, relations—continued, never ceased fire. To all of them she had remained the Mrs. De Staffelaer of old, who had never returned to the Hague since her marriage and who was now back with Van der Welcke. At visits, at tea-parties, at evening-parties, at the Witte or the Plaats, at Scheveningen, everywhere, the rapid cross-fire began, as a pleasant sport for all of them:
“You know, Mrs. De Staffelaer. . . .”
“Van Lowe that was. . . .”
“Yes, the one who went off with Van der Welcke. . . .”
“Yes, I remember: she married him. . . .”
“Yes, she’s back.”
“Yes, so I hear.”
“Yes, she was out driving yesterday with old Mrs. van Lowe.”
“So she’s back again?”
“Yes, she’s back!”
In this way the cross-fire began, suavely and rapidly, as a conversational sport.
“And so she is received by her relations?”
“Yes. And even at Driebergen.”
“Is it really twenty years ago?”
“No, it can’t be as long as that.”
“She has a child.”
