seven and five then; Emilie was a baby. Now she’s engaged. . . .”
She smiled, but her eyes were full of tears, her breast heaved.
“My dear child,” said the old lady.
“It’s a long time ago, Connie,” said Dorine.
It was twenty years since any one had called her Connie.
“So you’re thirty-six now, Dorine?”
“Yes, Connie, thirty-six,” said Dorine, uncomfortable, as usual, when anybody spoke of her; and she felt her smooth, flat hair, to see if it was drawn well back.
“You’ve changed very little, Dorine.”
“Do you think so, Connie?”
“I am very glad of it. . . . Will you like me a little, Dorine?”
“Why, of course, Connie.”
“My dear child,” said the old lady, much moved.
They were all three silent for a while. Constance felt so much, was so full of the past years, that she could not have uttered another word.
“Why didn’t you bring Addie?” asked Mamma.
“I thought he might be too young.”
“The two Marietjes always come; and so do Adolphine’s boys. We never sit up late, because of the children.”
“Then I’ll bring him next time, Mamma.”
Dorine stole a glance at her sister and reflected that Constance was still pretty, for a woman of forty-two. What a young and pretty figure, thought
