“I . . . I used to think that portrait much finer,” said Constance. “Was Papa so hard? . . .”
Her eyes were riveted on her father’s face. . . . She had certainly been his favourite daughter. Her marriage to De Staffelaer, his friend, a man much older than herself, had pleased him, because it flattered his ambition. . . . But then, then he fell ill; he died soon after, soon after the thing that happened: that and her marriage to Van der Welcke. . . . Oh God, was it she who had killed him?
She drew Dorine to her:
“Tell me, Dorine. . . . Was Papa ill for long?”
“Yes, Connie, very long.”
They were silent. They thought of their father, of his ambition, of his longing for the greatness which he achieved; of his wish to see his children also great, high-placed and powerful. . . .
“I say, Dorine, how strange it is . . . that not one of Papa’s sons . . .”
“What do you mean, Connie?”
“Nothing. . . . I don’t know. . . .”
Papa had always helped Van Naghel. . . . Her thoughts ran on:
“Dorine, is Karel still a burgomaster?”
“Oh, no, Connie! Karel and Cateau have been living at the Hague for years.”
“And Gerrit is . . . a captain?”
“Yes, in the hussars.”
“I am quite out of everything. . . . And Ernst . . . does nothing? . . .”
“Ernst has always been rather strange, you know;
